


The Iron Sky

by HuntingHardyGirl, Minxchester



Series: The Iron Sky [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2020-07-20 01:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 47
Words: 423,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuntingHardyGirl/pseuds/HuntingHardyGirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxchester/pseuds/Minxchester
Summary: Harry Potter died on June 24, 1995, in the Little Hangleton graveyard where Lord Voldemort returned to physical form. As the Dark Lord intended, this guaranteed that nobody knew of his rebirth except for his followers.And Draco Malfoy.(This story is a retelling of books 5-7 with the basis that Harry died at the end of his fourth year. It is named after and heavily inspired by the song "The Iron Sky" by Sunrise Ave. This fic is now completed!)[If you want to talk at us authors, ask questions, etc, we can be found daily on Tumblr @minxchester and @xfpurebloodaesthetics!]





	1. The Iron Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This story stemmed from me saying to my girlfriend (who is a fierce, fierce Draco stan, and has made me one as well), "What if Harry did die in the graveyard?" Naturally, she asked who would take up the mantle. My prompt answer...Draco Malfoy.
> 
> This fic follows the events of books five through seven, but with Draco taking up Harry's cause.

Harry Potter was dead.

That should have been national news, global even, and it should have devastated the entire wizarding world. Everyone should have known, and grief for that fact should have radiated throughout every magical home and neighborhood. Even those who hadn’t been particular fans of the remarkable Boy Who Lived would be troubled, and they should have known that it had happened.

Draco knew it, with cold and absolute certainty. He had seen the evidence, repulsive as it was, and he had listened to the Dark Lord’s gloating tale of how he had vanquished his young foe. Harry Potter was dead, and those who needed to know that--at Hogwarts, in the Ministry, wherever else--had no idea.

Draco could remember every detail of the final Triwizard Tournament task as if it had happened in slow motion, and it had been branded into his mind. When too much time had passed with only the unconscious forms of Fleur and Victor being recovered from the maze, the alarm had been raised. As Madame Pomfrey and the faculty had watched over the anxious assembly of students, Dumbledore had done away with the elaborate hedge maze with a complicated wave of his wand.

There had been no sign of Harry Potter, or of Cedric Diggory. No sign, either, of the Triwizard Cup, its magical silver form conspicuously absent from the ghostly stone tier that had marked the center of the maze. Dumbledore had circled the spot for countless minutes, murmuring spells and studying the area around the stone, but he’d come away with no answer as to where cup, or champions, had gone.

They had been declared missing, and the fear, concern, and suspicion were immediately rampant. Watching all of this unfold, Draco had felt cold dread crawl over his heart. He knew, without being sure of how, that they were dead--both of them. He had felt a momentary, ugly flash of relief that their corpses were not there for the entire school to see.

After all, the The Dark Lord had known better than to take the risk of leaving the bodies intact, given that the entire purpose of using the cup as a portkey and bringing Harry to him had been to keep his return to physical form a secret from the rest of the wizarding world. Only his Death Eaters--those who had gone to the graveyard, that was--and their families were aware that Lord Voldemort was back.

Perhaps Dumbledore had suspected at once; his Chosen One had vanished--and as Draco soon learned, so had Mad-Eye Moody. Or rather, the man who everyone at Hogwarts had _believed_ to be Moody.

Draco had remained silent as the events following the third task unfolded, his fear rising, but common sense preventing him from showing a hint of it. He did not miss the sharp, knowing looks that began appearing in the eyes of select other Slytherins, whose fathers were comrades of his own, all awaiting their Master’s return. Some of them had made no effort to conceal their anticipation as Harry was officially declared to be missing without a lead, guessing that something far bigger than even the famed Triwizard Tournament was brewing.

The end of term had been quiet and subdued, final exams cancelled, and security measures around the school amplified almost as much as they’d been the year before, when Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban had been the constant headline. Two students missing without a trace, as well as the professor who had been directly responsible for placing the now-absent Cup...Draco had completed the term in a daze, barely able to focus on anything beyond the frenzied murmurs of his classmates--some terrified, some tantalized.

And then he returned home, and Draco’s world came crashing violently back into cold, cruel focus.

Malfoy Manor had never been a warm place, but with the Dark Lord in residence, it had become chilling even in Draco’s eyes. It was almost surprising that ice didn’t coat every surface, or that the air that Draco exhaled as he entered his family’s house wasn’t visible as vapor. He had crossed through the foyer, and found Voldemort himself seated at the head of the enormous dining table, flanked by Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape. The rest of the table was occupied by men and women that Draco had known all his life. Now they were garbed in plain black robes, all with half-sleeves that exposed the vibrant Dark Marks burned into their flesh.

And behind Voldemort had stood a man whose face he knew perfectly well, even without having met him in person, since he’d been in Azkaban since before Draco’s birth. But now, Bartemius Crouch, Jr. was not imprisoned, nor was he disguised any longer as the former-Auror who had, apparently, never actually made it to Hogwarts. He’d stood tall and confident, his Dark Mark bared proudly, eyes glittering as he smirked at Draco’s obvious shock, and he had welcomed the teenager with a coldly smug, “Hello again, little ferret.”

Harry Potter was dead, murdered at fourteen years old when he tumbled into an impossible-to-win duel against his lifelong enemy in a graveyard far, far away from his beloved school, and his friends, and protectors. Killed less than an hour after Cedric, whose presence had certainly not been expected, but whose death was of no interest or importance to the Dark Lord. He had just been another body, transfigured into a bone, and then crushed into dust and scattered over the grave of the Dark Lord’s long-deceased Muggle father and grandparents.

Lord Voldemort hadn’t quite resisted the urge to make a trophy out of Harry, though, to Draco’s immense internal horror. The Dark Lord had transfigured the teenager’s body into a replica of his own bloody glasses, and they now sat folded neatly on the mantle of Draco’s family dining room, resting against the base of the bloody Triwizard Cup.

It had taken everything in Draco’s body, all of his physical and mental will-power, to manage to conceal his revulsion until he could hide away in his own rooms, vomiting until he had nothing left inside of him to expel.

His home turned into a place of nightmares. Any warmth, any sense of safety and belonging that Draco had ever known in the enormous mansion was gone, replaced by the chill of dark and murderous intent. Cloaked figures roamed the halls, eyes hard and blazing with cruelty and malice. He hid away as often as he could, though his father insisted on his prompt attendance to any and all meetings, meals, or gatherings that were held. Lucius’ pride at being back at the left hand of his Master was unparalleled, and Draco did not want to see what sort of wrath he might provoke if he _shamed_ the man by refusing to appear just as proud and eager to stand in the Dark Lord’s presence.

The months between school years had never seemed particularly long before, but that summer dragged on in a manner that Draco knew he would relive in his darkest dreams for the rest of his days.

Lord Voldemort was a cruel being.

By September, Draco could not even bring himself to refer to him as a _man_. His malice went deeper than that of anyone Draco had ever known, even among the other Death Eaters. They were all still human, still had souls that had to bear the damages of their actions...but not Voldemort. He may have been born with a soul, but whatever remained of it inside him was too weak, too worthless to be counted.

“There is no higher honor than this,” Lucius Malfoy triumphed, during one of the rare evenings when he dined with just his wife and son. Draco didn’t speak, couldn’t bring himself to; he was sure that even the walls had ears now, and since he could not share his father’s twisted pride, he did not dare to voice his thoughts. “The Dark Lord has returned, and he has chosen our family, our _home_ , as the foundation from which he will resume his mission. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined we would be granted such favor.”

Narcissa, for her part, had taken to being as quiet as her son, though she did offer her husband a seemingly genuine smile as he gloated. Draco wondered, as he never used to before, what his mother actually thought about it all. She was not a Death Eater, did not bear the Dark Mark or attend the meetings that Voldemort held in their primary dining hall with his cloaked and masked followers; but she had supported and stood by Lucius no matter what happened throughout the years.

Draco wondered if the despicable things that had been done, and were now happening inside of their house, disturbed her at all--or if she simply shut them out of her thoughts, and focused on being present for her husband and child.

“Our family will achieve the kind of glory that has always defined the Malfoy name,” his father continued, looking at Draco as if expecting him to join him in anticipating their future accolades. “The Dark Lord rewards those who serve him most loyally, and we have been faithful to the last. You will see, Draco, everything you’ve ever dreamt of attaining will be within your reach. You’re of an ideal age, too; you will ascend in the ranks and earn honors and prestige beyond imagining, far beyond your peers.”

In his mind, Draco suddenly recalled vividly the sight of the Muggle family that had been attacked at the Quidditch World Cup the summer before. How they’d floated and spun in midair, helpless and subjected to humiliated by the Death Eaters’ demonstration.

That night, Draco had been so proud to know that Lucius was among them, masked and cloaked and representing the Dark Lord in his absence, keeping the wizarding world on its toes. Shame pulsed through him as he recalled standing in the woods, watching the unfolding events without concern or pity. He’d run into Harry Potter that night, fleeing the campground with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger; Draco swallowed, trying not to let his face reflect the horror that welled up as he remembered taunting them, suggesting that Granger would wind up in the air with those innocent Muggles.

“Draco?”

He blinked, looking back at his father and managing a small nod. “Sorry, Father. I...I was thinking about last year. The World Cup, and...the Muggles.”

Lucius arched an eyebrow, looking quizzical. “What about it? A rousing night for us, certainly, but it pales in comparison to the victories that are yet to come. Though I still question Crouch’s sensibility, raising the Dark Mark as he did.” Lucius sniffed haughtily, swirling his wine. “He brought the Ministry down on the whole event far more abruptly than we had intended.”

Draco swallowed again, trying to suppress the nausea beginning to curl through his gut. “If he hadn’t done that, would...do you think you would have killed them?” In his peripheral vision, Draco saw his mother’s hands still as she cut her food, and he knew that he was worrying her with his questions.

His father appeared surprised and confused. “I don’t know. It wasn’t discussed, and obviously it didn’t come to that...but what would it matter?” he added, looking at Draco more pointedly. “They were only Muggles, son. And more importantly, one does whatever one must in the service of the Dark Lord. We must be willing to do anything necessary to prove our absolute loyalty to him, and to his cause. Surely you understand that, don’t you, Draco? You were raised to see things the proper way.”

Staring back at his father, Draco’s mind spun to a slow halt. He was, despite having only just turned fifteen, already a capable Occlumens due to his mother’s tutoring, and Draco intended to continue perfecting the skill. Now, unexpectedly, he found himself confronted with a very real reason to master it.

For the first time in his life, finally, Draco thought that he was really seeing the truth of his father’s character.

The final straw, for Draco, came as July dawned. The summer had been cruel from the start; but the ugliness came to a head when Voldemort finally succeeded in having his Death Eaters track down and collect anyone who had publicly renounced the Dark Lord and defected from his cause.

Many had done so over the course of the previous decade. If their Marks had burned in summoning on the night of his return, the night that Harry Potter died, then they had not come to the graveyard.

Now, they were being hunted down and brought to the Manor in penalty. Draco stood at his bedroom window, watching with a sick feeling as Travers and MacNair dragged one final person kicking and protesting into the house. They vanished from view, but now Draco could hear the doomed man’s voice, weeping and pleading for forgiveness that could not be earned.

Crossing to the landing, Draco looked down past the winding staircase. Horror struck him anew as he recognized the voice of the final defector to be collected; Theodore Nott, Sr., whose son was among Draco’s own friends in Slytherin House at Hogwarts.

He wondered if Theo knew that his father was missing. And how he would react, when he eventually learned that the man’s death occurred at Malfoy Manor. Draco didn’t have to guess whether or not that was the intended outcome; for the past week, as the Death Eaters had collected these poor people, they had been imprisoned in the cellar and tortured. Draco hadn’t slept in days, haunted by the screams and begging that could be heard throughout the Manor.

The first night, he’d gone downstairs, half-possessed by the mad, suicidal urge to burst down the stone steps and intervene, to stop Voldemort from doing this. To plead with him not to keep drawing this insanity out, and just to end their suffering. Surely there was nothing gained by their pain, if they were going to die no matter what they said or offered.

Draco had held onto a fragment of hope, praying that his father was not down there. And to a degree, he was not disappointed; Lucius was not in the cellar, assisting with the sadism taking place. But he stood at the door, his face stoic and cold, and when Draco stopped at the sight of him, the older man’s mouth tightened into a thin line.

“You can’t endorse this,” Draco said hollowly, flinching as another scream echoed up the stone steps from beneath their feet.

Lucius stood stiffly, shaking his head fractionally. “It is the Dark Lord’s will. Know your place, Draco.” And that was the end of any attempt at conversation between father and son, for the remainder of the summer.

Following the capture of Nott, Sr., the torture continued for another few days, until the sound of screams being muffled by stone seemed to be ingrained into Draco’s mind.

And then one August afternoon, Voldemort summoned everyone in the house outside to the gardens behind the Manor. Draco accompanied his mother grudgingly, not returning his father’s gaze as they joined the other Death Eaters standing on the lawn. When he finally did raise his eyes, Draco wished immediately that he was anywhere else in the world but there.

The defectors, now broken and bloodied by days and in some cases weeks of violence and abuse, were bound and forced onto their knees in the grass, heads bowed as Voldemort strolled back and forth before the line of them. Some were so disfigured from the torture that Draco couldn’t be sure of their identities--but that did not include Theodore Nott, or Igor Karkaroff.

Draco’s stomach twisted viciously when his eyes landed on the former Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute. He had not been the final traitor to be dragged, fighting and pleading, to face his reborn Master’s rage, but he had not yet been tortured into being unrecognizable. And as if sensing Draco’s wide-eyed, horrified stare, the man raised his head just enough, his gaze meeting the teenager’s with an undeniable glimmer of recognition.

Karkaroff opened his mouth, though Draco could not imagine what he might try and say--and then Voldemort spoke, silencing any attempt at speech from the prisoners.

“All of you gathered here...you were all, once, my trusted and beloved servants,” the Dark Lord said, his voice little more than a low, vibrant hiss. A minute shiver rippled through those standing, despite the fact that they were safe where they were--at least for the time being. Those kneeling shuddered more visibly, and Draco felt a lump rise in his throat.

“Some of you have remained loyal to the vows you once took,” Voldemort continued, turning to let his cold, scarlet eyes roam over the standing men. His gaze brushed over Draco, who did not lower his own quickly enough, but there was no interest or concern in the older wizard’s expression before he moved on from the teenager’s face. Draco meant nothing to him, and the blonde could not have been more grateful for that. “You answered my summons...with stunning promptness, I must say. You came when your Master called, prepared to pledge yourselves once more to our...noble cause.”

He looked back over his kneeling victims, and his voice turned colder. “They were unafraid. Your Master was reborn, triumphant at last, and they came at once to my side to witness my victory.” Voldemort raised his wand, running his fingers along its length absently, prompting flinches from several of the kneeling men. “At last, I completed the task that had led to my downfall, over a decade ago.”

Voldemort stopped pacing, standing at the end of the row. “I can only imagine that some of you, kneeling here, either truly believed that a one-year-old child somehow defeated me--the most powerful sorcerer in the world--and therefore did not answer my call out of sheer foolishness...or, perhaps, you believed that even if I had returned, I would not rise back to my former glory. That I would not destroy my improbable young enemy, and resume my quest to cleanse our world of the stain of Muggles, and their filth.”

His mouth curved into the shape of a smile, but it was so heartless and empty that it only appeared more frightening. “Your doubt in your Master is telling. The night of my disappearance was...an unfortunate setback. But I was never going to remain gone...and those who came when called had the indescribable privilege of witnessing me finally vanquish him. The so-called _boy who lived_.”

There was a stirring among those standing around Draco, and in his peripheral vision he saw his father actually smile. Even knowing that Lucius had been there that night--or perhaps he’d just assumed, feared it to be true, Draco had never brought himself to ask aloud--the sight of the pleasure on Lucius’ face made a cold pit settle in his gut.

Draco’s eyes leapt back to the doomed men kneeling mee yards away from him. Blood dripped from some of their faces, staining the enchanted vibrant green grass under their knees with patches of crimson. None of them, not even Theodore Nott--who had only been in the cellar for perhaps 48 hours, at the longest--were unmarked by the Dark Lord’s wrath, bruised and torn to the point that those who had been brought to the Manor first barely seemed conscious anymore. They slumped forward where they knelt, kept upright by magic alone.

A grim thought struck Draco, unexpected and horrifically unwelcome, making bile rise in his throat before Draco managed to forcibly swallow it back, not daring to make a sound.

Was this how Harry Potter had died? Had it been as slow as the fate being faced by these former Death Eaters, drawn-out and painful, intended to break down and humiliate him? Or had Voldemort shown a rare act of mercy, and granted the teenager a swift death? Draco’s eyes darted sideways to his father again, and he felt a sudden, fierce desire to slam his fist into the older man’s face, or to draw his wand--he didn’t even know what for, what spell or curse he would use, but he felt genuine hatred as he saw Lucius’ smug expression.

His father had stood by, unfazed, and witnessed a boy his son’s own age be murdered--very likely in as cruel and brutal a manner as what was happening here and now--and he still supported the monster who had resumed his pacing, strolling to the other end of the row. It seemed as if Voldemort was simply enjoying the mounting terror of the damned souls before him.

“You are cowards, and traitors,” Voldemort declared, his black robes swirling smoke-like around him as he issued the words as if he were a judge delivering a sentence, in a proper court of law. “From the moment that you felt the Marks burn, and you chose to defy your Master...you were bound for death. You ought to have known this...though of course, knowing it would have made no difference regarding your fate.”

Again, Draco caught Karkaroff’s eyes flicking up, and again their gazes met. The dark-eyed man looked somehow simultaneously resigned, and furious, and Draco could almost have sworn that there was a flash of pleading in their depths before Voldemort moved again. He stopped in front of Karkaroff, who shrank back at once.

“Let this lesson be noted by those who were wise enough to return,” Voldemort murmured, continuing to turn his wand over in his hands. “Your Master can be forgiving...but only once. And if you fail me in the future...you will join these fools in their doom.”

Draco could not tear his eyes from Karkaroff’s broken frame. Just weeks ago, this man had been at Hogwarts, occupying the same castle where Draco slept, and learned, and had spent four years feeling safe and confident in his place in the wizarding world, and his future therein.

Karkaroff had walked the same halls as Harry Potter, mere months before. It was clear now that it had not been him who had submitted the boy’s name to the Goblet of Fire; Draco was suddenly sure, with absolutely nothing to support the conviction other than blind intuition, that Karkaroff had never seen Harry Potter as anything more dangerous than a competitor for Victor Krum, in a Tournament that should not have cost anyone their lives.

For the first time in a very long time, Draco abruptly felt hyper-aware of his own youth. He was just newly fifteen years old, a child still--he had always resented it when his mother said it, but now Draco felt the truth of it down to his bones--and his entire world was collapsing in on itself. It was not the same as the horrible wake-up call that he’d experienced when he’d come home for the summer, and had first found Voldemort occupying the Manor. Draco had still been himself, albeit now constantly consumed by a feeling of deep, unending cold fear; he had held onto hope that his parents were still the noble and admirable people that he had always believed them to be, and that this nightmare might somehow disappear.

Perhaps his mother was not lost to him--but as long as she chose to stand by Lucius, and as long as Lucius maintained his sick belief in the Dark Lord’s ideologies, then Draco knew he would have to close his heart even to his love for her. There was no safety left here. The Manor had ceased to be his home, forever corrupted by the evil of the wizard preparing to shed more blood on its ground.

He looked at Voldemort now, who was evaluating his victims in a calculating manner, choosing. Draco drew a breath, though he had no idea what he could say or do; any action on his part would result in him joining the lineup. “Igor,” Voldemort whispered, and Karkaroff raised his head, the sunlight exposing the swollen state of his eyes. Blood slipped down his cheek like a nightmarish teardrop, and he stared back at the Dark Lord with no more fear, only indifferent, passive acceptance.

As Voldemort raised his wand, however, the dark eyes slid past Voldemort’s face and returned to Draco’s one final time. Draco did not look away.

“ _Avada kedavra_.”

Draco thought that he had known what death looked like. It was a foolish, childish thought, believing that he couldn’t possibly be fazed if he was ever confronted by death, because he was a Malfoy and a pureblood and he had been raised to be strong and unafraid.

He _saw_ the light leave Karkaroff’s eyes.

Never before had Draco understood the notion that the eyes were the “window to the soul,” but there was no way to deny it when watching a man’s eyes visibly go dark as the unseen spectre of Death reaped his life force. Karkaroff fell forward, no longer bound by the spells holding Voldemort’s prisoners, and the Dark Lord turned his gaze uncaringly to the next man, repeating the Killing Curse in quick succession until they all lay face-down on the grass, unmoving.

Draco stared blankly at the top of Theodore Nott Sr.’s head, wondering how he would ever find the strength to meet Theo’s eyes again after watching his father’s murder.

* * *

_Fall_

Draco almost feared that he would be kept from returning to Hogwarts that fall, in the weeks following the mass-execution. To his infinite relief, the only time it came up involved his father taking him to one side and reminding him, intently, that he would need to maintain absolute silence when he was back at school. There would no doubt still be unease and speculation, since Potter and Diggory remained missing, but Draco would need to implement his Occlumency lessons to the greatest degree that he could.

He promised to do so, fiercely enough that his father seemed more than sufficiently reassured. It was not a lie; Draco didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was hardly intending to return to Hogwarts and run screaming through the halls, proclaiming Voldemort’s return. Lucius, he assumed, forwarded his oath of silence to Voldemort, and when the day came, nothing was said or done to prevent Draco from going to Diagon Alley and then on to King’s Cross station, accompanied only by his mother.

The ride from London to Hogsmeade was tense and quiet. Blaise and Crabbe played Exploding Snap, and Pansy tried to entice him into a round of Gobstones before settling for talking about the new courses they’d have with Theo and Goyle, and musing on who might be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, since Moody was obviously not returning.

As usual, the returning students parted ways from incoming first years, who were led towards the lake for their ceremonial boat crossing. Making their way to the carriage line, Draco was watching his footing in the fading daylight when he heard a peculiar sound just ahead of him, like something snorting and whinnying.

Raising his head, Draco paused, bewildered and trying to interpret what he was seeing.

There were creatures now drawing the carriages, the likes of which Draco had never seen before. They looked almost horse-like--but at the same time, so vastly different that it was nearly an impossible comparison to make. They were tall, almost skeletal in appearance, with gleaming black coats, enormous dark eyes, and--strangest of all--long, bat-like wings tucked neatly against each beast’s back.

Draco was so disoriented by the unexpected sight of them, and by the seeming lack of surprise or curiosity shown by any of his peers continuing to walk forward around him, that he had fallen behind without his housemates realizing. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise were gone, already in a carriage, and the creatures pulling it hadn’t known to wait for him.

As Draco stood waiting for another carriage to stop for him, movement drew his eyes ahead of him. His stomach clenched as he spotted Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, waiting at the front of the line of students along with Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom.

The two Gryffindors looked pale and unwell, faces with grief and posture tensed from trauma, and Draco felt an impossible surge of pity well up for them.

All past contempt was gone. He felt no dislike for Ron and his large, tight-knit family, and nothing but sorrow filled Draco’s heart as he took in Hermione’s expressionless face and thin frame; she’d lost weight over the summer, though she’d already been thin enough to begin with. The absence of Harry Potter at his best friends’ side was almost a tangible wound in the fabric of reality. He watched them as they moved to board the next carriage, joining a bright-blonde-haired girl in Ravenclaw colors already sitting in it with a magazine in front of her eyes.

Before their carriage departed, Draco overheard just a snippet of the conversation; he did not catch whatever it was that Neville said, but Ginny introduced the Ravenclaw girl as Luna Lovegood, and out of whatever she said in reply to Neville, one word caught Draco’s attention distinctly. _Thestral_.

Fresh revulsion struck him, and Draco looked away from them as a memory struck him from reading about unique magical creatures. In turning his face, though, Draco found himself suddenly face-to-face with the thestral that was stopping in front of him, drawing an empty carriage. Draco stared back at it in silence, wondering if thestrals had any idea that humans feared them because of their strange, grim nature.

More than he had at any moment thus far of the past days, Draco wished that he had not been forced to join the assembly on the Manor lawn. He had witnessed death firsthand, and now, he could see thestrals, haunting and tragic beasts that were often used to symbolize death because they were only visible to those who had seen it in person.

He climbed into the carriage, barely noticing that none of the other remaining students joined him. Draco stared ahead through the darkness at the carriage containing Harry Potter’s hurting and heartbroken friends. They were not just reeling from the loss of their best friend; somehow it seemed a thousand times worse, to Draco, that they were also buckling under the weight of not even knowing for certain that Harry _was_ dead.

The shame and fear pinching in Draco’s stomach and chest ached harder.

* * *

Pansy was all apologies over the others not realizing in time that Draco had missed their carriage, but he assured her repeatedly that it had been perfectly fine. He knew that they would hardly leave him behind out of spite. The group made their way into the Great Hall once they were all in their school robes, finding seats at the Slytherin table and eyeing the faculty table curiously.

Everyone present knew there would be a new face up there.

The instant that Draco spotted the short woman in an unpleasantly pink dress, he frowned, wondering what on earth someone from the Ministry was doing at Hogwarts. He couldn’t recall her name, but he knew that she was one of the higher-ups, directly under Fudge. She was looking over the gathering students, wearing a stretched smile that did not reach her eyes.

Professor Dumbledore stood, coming forward to the podium at the edge of the platform where the teachers all sat, and a silence fell over the students. The Headmaster smiled out at them, his lined face looking a little more tired than it used to.

“Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore began, and his voice sounded graver and more thoughtful than Draco thought he’d ever heard it before. The older wizard had always appeared his age, regal and stately no matter the bright colors or patterns of his robes...but now, there was a weariness to his body language that seemed to have added a century to him. “I have only a few notes to share, before we may turn to our usual excellent welcoming feast. First years, welcome especially to you--and please know that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students. Some of you older students ought to remember that, too.”

Draco actually almost smiled at that, despite the pressure of worry and confusion weighing on his mind. His eyes reflectively leapt over to the Gryffindor table, spotting Ron and Hermione trade a look that actually looked amused, easing some of the pain that continued to haunt their expressions.

Inexplicably, Draco remembered the dragon-debacle-prompted detention that he had shared with the pair of them--along with Harry Potter--during their first year. The forest might be forbidden, but it was familiar territory for some of the students.

“Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked for what he informs me if the four hundred and sixty-second time to remind you all that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes. This is listed, among many other things, on the extensive list of banned behaviors and items that you may find on his office door.” Dumbledore was smiling beneath his silver beard, and there was a smattering of chuckles from students who were well-familiar with Filch’s eccentricities. Fred and George Weasley looked downright fond, hearing the annual warning.

Dumbledore paused, as if debating his approach to the next note before he continued speaking. “We have also had two staffing changes this year. We are pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be resuming her post as Care of Magical Creatures professor.”

Draco blinked, his eyes roaming swiftly over the faculty table; only then did he register that, indeed, there was no sign of Rubeus Hagrid’s enormous frame. His usual seat was occupied by the witch who had retired the year before, and was now smiling politely back at the faint ripple of applause her announcement had received.

“We are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, who will be our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” the Headmaster continued. “Now, tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the--”

He broke off abruptly, turning his head to look inquiringly back at Professor Umbridge. For a moment there was only silence, no one sure what had stopped Dumbledore from speaking. But then Umbridge made a sound, a faint “ _Hem, hem_ ,” and Draco realized only then that she had stood up to speak, though it made her appear no taller than she’d been while sitting. Dumbledore looked mildly taken aback; but then he simply stepped back, geturing in invitation for her to approach the podium. His expression, which Draco found amusing just based on his knowledge of the older wizard, was alert and rapt as if Dumbledore wanted nothing more in the world than to listen to Professor Umbridge speak.

The other members of the staff were not quite as skilled in hiding their reactions to this development. Professor Sprout’s eyebrows were up underneath her hat, and Professor McGonagall’s lips tightened into a thin, hard line as she eyed the pink-clad woman stepping forward. Looking around, Draco saw that plenty of students were smirking; no one ever interrupted the Headmaster when he was speaking, and it set Umbridge apart as being out-of-place immediately.

“Thank you, Headmaster, for the kind words of welcome.” Professor Umbridge’s voice matched her appearance; it was high, breathy, and rather disturbingly childlike. Draco felt a surge of fresh of dislike that went beyond just knowing that she was a Ministry employee who had been selected, for no discernible reason that he could determine, to teach at Hogwarts.

He knew that Voldemort had been maneuvering people at the Ministry, making tactful changes and arrangements in order to ensure that he had control of it from within without openly showing his hand as having returned. Draco had no idea why, but he was abruptly quite certain that Umbridge was either a very intentional, dangerous placement among the faculty; or she was a pawn, and didn’t even know, herself, the risk that she posed to the school.

She cleared her throat again, the sound grating despite its soft volume, and continued. “Well, it is so lovely to be back at Hogwarts,” Umbridge chirped, smiling with far too much teeth. “And to see so many happy, smiling little faces looking back at me!”

Draco’s eyes slid around to his peers; not a single person in the Great Hall looked even remotely happy, and some were outright frowning at being addressed like children.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!” Professor Umbridge went on, apparently not noticing the looks that were being exchanged between students, or the grins and giggles breaking out here and there.

Unbidden, Draco’s eyes went to the Gryffindor table, and he saw that for the first time, Hermione Granger appeared alert and fully engaged. Unlike Ron, who had already glazed over and was looking asleep with his eyes open, the brunette was staring up at Umbridge with a hard, intent expression. Draco watched her for a moment, then refocused as Umbridge resumed talking.

The breathiness vanished from her voice now; she was suddenly businesslike, her speech sounding prepared and memorized, in stark contrast with her garishly pink, frilly appearance. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

Umbridge paused there, turning and making a little bow to her fellow staff members. None of them bowed back. Professor McGonagall, in fact, looked openly more and more openly hostile as she stared at the back of Umbridge’s prissily-done hair; Draco distinctly saw her exchange a significant glance with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gave another little “ _Hem, hem,_ ” and went on with her speech. 

“Every Headmaster and Headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation...”

Draco had to admit, it gradually became a lot more difficult to stay focused and actually comprehend her words as Umbridge droned on. It was like flipping between radio channels, only registering the meaning of snatches of sentences before losing it again. The quiet that always filled the Great Hall when Dumbledore was speaking was crumbling as students tuned Umbridge out, whispering amongst themselves.

Professor Umbridge did not seem to be aware or care about her audience’s restlessness. Draco idly wondered if even a full-scale riot would have prevented the insipid woman from plunging on through her speech.

The teachers, he did notice, were still listening very attentively, and Hermione Granger seemed to be drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though judging by her hardened expression, she did not like what she was hearing. “...because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and account-ability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

She paused then for a good long moment, and the cessation of her droning on drew enough attention that gradually the Great Hall fell silent again. Umbridge smiled, more sickly and coldly then before. “After all,” she concluded, her tone turning into something feathery-soft, and Draco could almost hear the underlying edge of threat in her words. “Conditions at Hogwarts are proving themselves to be rather in need of evaluation. The school is not free of its share of tragedy; but the disappearance of two students and a professor, during what should have an ordinary, well-managed, and celebratory event, sets itself apart even from that history. So we will all move on together, improving as we do so. Rest assured; the Ministry will be keeping a closer eye on things at Hogwarts, in order to ensure that the school continues to be a beacon of hope and advancement.”

At long last, she sat down, and Dumbledore began clapping promptly. The staff followed his lead, though Draco could see clearly that several of them brought their hands together only once or twice before stopping. A few of the students joined in, but most were clearly confused as to what they were even applauding for.

Dumbledore stood up again, moving back to the podium. “Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he said, bowing to her. “Now--as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held...”

“Illuminating, or pointless as shite,” Pansy remarked, drumming her perfectly-manicured nails on the tabletop. She glanced at Draco, tipping her head as she took in his expression, and the way he was eyeing Umbridge. “Did you get anything out of that load of rubbish at all?”

Draco swallowed, looking back at his best friend and feeling, suddenly, as if a crossroads had just materialized in front of him. He had a choice to make.

And right then and there, he knew that he could not take either path alone, no matter the risk involved. “I did,” he said quietly, beginning to load his plate just for something to occupy his hands with, as Dumbledore wrapped up the announcements and initiated the feast. “And none of it’s going to be good.”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose. Draco had always admired her sharp intelligence and wit, and he could see the wheels turning in her mind as she studied his face, seemingly recognizing that something had changed profoundly over the summer. She stayed silent, nodding for him to continue.

“The bit about ‘progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged,’ and ‘pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited,’” Draco said, keeping his voice low. He trusted his friends, or believed that he could, anyway--but every word coming out of his mouth felt dangerously closer and closer to admitting something that, had he dared even think it while still at home, Draco suspected would have gotten him killed.

“Well, what does it mean?” Pansy prompted, nudging him. “Come on, love, you look pale as death.”

“I’ll tell you what it means,” said Draco quietly. “It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts. And that we’re all in danger.”

His mind was made up.

* * *

The following morning after barely touching his breakfast, Draco feigned a headache and urged Pansy and Theo to go on to their first Transfiguration class without him.

As soon as he was quite certain that the entrance hall was deserted, Draco started up the staircases, walking quickly until he reached Professor Dumbledore’s office.


	2. Time to Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This took enormous courage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've ever written such a dialogue-heavy chapter in my entire writing career. X'D

When Draco knocked on the dark wood of the Headmaster’s office door, there was a brief pause before Professor Dumbledore’s familiar voice called out an invitation to enter. The latch clicked, the door swinging inward slightly, and Draco hesitated for a split second, almost losing his nerve.

He looked back over his shoulder at the darkened circle stairwell that led back out to the corridor. If he left now--if he went back to the dungeons, to the Slytherin dorms, and just tried to keep his head down and get through this year...through this entire mess...

A flicker of light drew his attention back to the cracked door, and through the open space Draco saw a beautiful golden and crimson bird, roughly the size of a swan, perched on a lovely carved roosting post. The bird had one glittering black eye fixed on Draco through the doorway, and when he looked back at it, its head tilted slightly and it let out a soft, strangely welcoming-sounding chirp.

Draco drew a deep breath, then pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The door closed itself silently behind him.

Professor Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, a large book open before him, but he looked up at Draco over the top of his half-moon spectacles. If he was surprised to find the blonde teenager in his study, he didn’t show it. He merely smiled, marking his page and closing the book before sending it back to its place on the nearby bookcase with a wave of his wand.

“Mr. Malfoy, good evening. An unexpected pleasure, on the first night of the new term...how can I help you tonight?”

Swallowing, Draco forced his feet to carry him forward. He crossed the lower level of the office, stepping up to be level with the older man. The bird--a phoenix, he now realized, and abruptly Draco remembered the tales and rumors surrounding Potter’s survival in the Chamber of Secrets during their second year--watched him with intelligent eyes, clicking his beak quietly when Draco stopped directly in front of Dumbledore’s desk.

“Draco?”

He met the Headmaster’s eyes, seeing the kindness and wisdom in their blue depths. For four years, he had ignored the good that radiated from Dumbledore, wanting to hate him per his father’s orders. So many times the older man had proven himself to be decent, compassionate, concerned first and foremost for his students’ well-being, and arrogance stemming from pureblood ideologies and a desperation to please his parents had driven Draco to never appreciate those qualities.

“Voldemort is back,” he said, his voice so thin he was amazed that the words came out clearly. “He--he returned on the night of the third Triwizard Tournament task.” Draco moistened his lips, swallowing to try and sound stronger. He did not want to say the next words, but he had made his choice, and he could not conceal this information. “Harry Potter is dead.”

For a long moment, they regarded one another in silence. Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to dim a little, and Draco could see the moment that he processed the words fully, and the grief settled in him. “Are you quite certain?” the Headmaster asked quietly. “Of both those things?”

Draco nodded, his throat tight. “He--Voldemort used...blood magic, I guess, I didn’t hear what it was called. He...he said that he was reborn by bone, flesh, and--”

“Blood,” Dumbledore confirmed, his face bowing for a moment. Draco felt the impulse to look away, as if he were intruding on a personal moment of pain for the Headmaster. But Dumbledore continued, his voice still calm and level. “Do you know whose bone and flesh were used? Such magic should require blood relatives, but he has none.”

“It...happened in a graveyard.” Draco felt himself sway slightly, and with barely a flick of his hand, Dumbledore summoned another chair, and Draco sank into it gratefully as he continued staring back into the tired blue eyes across the desk. “He said it was where his...father is buried.” A tiny, utterly humorous sound similar to a choked laugh escaped him. “I couldn’t imagine him _having_ a father.”

Dumbledore returned the unhappy smile. “Indeed. Before he assumed the identity we all so fear, the man was just an ordinary wizard. He attended Hogwarts. He was half-blood; his mother a witch, and his father a Muggle. So he used his father’s bones...”

“He said they were nothing but dust,” Draco whispered, then coughed to bring himself back to normal volume. “And--P-Peter Pettigrew was there, too. He--he said he cut off his own hand to add it to the spell.” Draco shuddered, feeling the same cold in his stomach that he had when he’d first seen the cowardly Gryffindor’s altered limb. “Voldemort gave him a silver hand.”

There was a pause, and he knew what the next question would be. Draco swallowed hard, raising his head and launching into the story. He had to tell it all, so there was no use stuttering about it. “Alastor Moody never made it here. It was Barty Crouch Jr. all along.” Dumbledore nodded slowly, gesturing for him to go on, and Draco did. “He put Potter’s name in the Goblet. And guided him through the Tournament. It wasn’t about killing Potter, like everyone thought. At least not--not till then end. It was all to get him there. To the graveyard.”

Abruptly Draco stood, fear and frustration welling up and making it impossible to stay still. Professor Dumbledore did not comment, merely continued watching the teenager intently over his steepled fingers, and finally Draco could continue speaking.

“He bragged about it.” Draco closed his eyes, hearing the high, cold voice in his head still. “How Pettigrew t-tied Potter up and did the spell, used his blood to bring Voldemort back. And then he pressed the Mark, and--and he said about a dozen answered the call. Voldemort wanted witnesses for killing--”

He stopped again, Karkaroff’s face flashing behind his eyes, and then Potter’s. Draco opened his eyes, returning to the chair and sitting back down as Dumbledore continued gazing at him with quiet patience. Draco hesitated for a heartbeat. “Are you going to ask?”

Dumbledore merely smiled, the expression small and sad. “If you wish to share that piece of information, you may. But considering the circumstances, and the fact that you have come here to tell me all of this, I believe I can safely say that you are breaking from tradition where your father and his views are concerned. Is that not so?” The Headmaster raised one eyebrow. “Or did Lord Voldemort ask you to bring this news to me?”

“Merlin, no,” Draco muttered, an almost hysterical laugh escaping him. “I’m quite sure he’d kill me the instant he knew--or, no, he’d torture me first, no one just gets granted death.” At Dumbledore’s perturbed look, Draco sagged in his seat. “Everyone--every Death Eater who didn’t come to the graveyard, those who aren’t locked up I mean, he had them hunted down. They’re dead.”

Dumbledore frowned. “Can you share names with me, Draco?”

The teenager sighed. “There were a lot. But if it’s what you’re wondering, Karkaroff was one of them. Theodore Nott, too.” Draco glanced up at the older man through his lashes. “Theo doesn’t know yet.”

“No, and I suppose we’d best wait to tell him,” Dumbledore said gravely. “It will be a hard blow for him, given that his family has maintained the ideology. His father choosing not to answer the call that night may not have reflected a change of heart overall. Best to wait things out a bit.” He waved a hand, conjuring a goblet of water that landed in front of Draco on the desk. “Are you able to continue telling me all that he shared in his gloating?”

Taking a sip gratefully, Draco nodded. “I don’t know all the details. Just that he...he dueled Potter. And he won.”

The pause this time was weighted with what he wasn’t saying, but Dumbledore knew. Lord Voldemort did not do things in small measures. Having spent thirteen years crushed, temporarily “defeated” by a literal infant...being able to face that boy again, restored to a physical body and with his wand back in his hand, would not result in any degree of mercy or swiftness on the Dark Lord’s part.

“Do you know what became of the bodies?”

Draco had to close his eyes again, haunted once more by the image burned into his mind of those glasses, resting in the eerie glow of the Triwizard Cup.

“Diggory was Transfigured and buried there, in--in the grave holding Voldemort’s father,” he replied softly. “Potter...the same, but he’s--he’s at the Manor.” He heard the soft inhalation of breath at that revelation, but Dumbledore did not speak, and Draco could not bring himself to look up. “If I could have brought him back without being caught--”

“No, no,” Professor Dumbledore cut him off gently. “Of course not, Draco, that would not be a burden I would place upon your shoulders.” Draco started to reply, and once more the Headmaster shook his head. “Draco, you are sitting in my office telling me information that we both know would result in death--perhaps multiple deaths--if Voldemort was aware of it. Unless I am mistaken, that means that you have witnessed sufficient evidence to know exactly how volatile and dangerous he truly is.”

Draco nodded silently.

“Therefore, I would not expect nor desire for you to take any risks beyond the bare minimum--which is what you are doing by sitting across from me right now.” Professor Dumbledore leaned forward, staring at the boy across from him intently. “So, you have told me where Cedric and Harry’s bodies are.” His voice softened. “Please continue. If only to ease your own heart.”

Draco sorted through his thoughts for a moment. “The whole thing was orchestrated so that no one would know he’s back--not you, or the Ministry. As soon as it was clear that they weren’t coming out of the maze, Crouch went back to the Manor.” Staring at his hands, Draco exhaled heavily. “When I came home, they were all there. He was in my dining room, practically--holding court, like a bloody king--and--”

His stuttering stopped as sudden realization made Draco pause. His eyes darted up to Dumbledore’s again, uncertain of how to tell the Headmaster the next bit.

To Draco’s surprise, though, understanding abruptly lit in Dumbledore’s keen gaze. “Ah,” Dumbledore said, straightening up and leaning back in his chair. “Ah, now I see. Don’t fear, Draco, you are not going to break an old man’s heart. I suppose, since you are making this very brave choice, I should confide in you in turn.” The Headmaster smiled faintly. “I am sure that Lord Voldemort believes it to be the greatest joke, that I so deeply trust my Potions master when he believes Severus to be firmly loyal to him, is that the case?”

Nodding, Draco’s eyebrows rose. “But you do trust him--you really do have a reason to?”

“I do,” Dumbledore said gently. “And it is his tale to tell, not mine, but suffice to say...from the point, almost fourteen years ago when Voldemort targeted the Potter family, Severus has skillfully navigated double agency and has remained an invisible liability to the Dark Lord.” Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. “This does explain the tension I have seen in him, over the past months. I presume--perhaps you can confirm for me--that Lord Voldemort has implemented silencing measures on those Death Eaters who remain alive?”

“He must have,” Draco agreed. “Though why he let me return to school without putting it on me, too...”

“A habitual error on his part,” Dumbledore said, chuckling quietly. “He constantly underestimates those who he deems too inferior to pose any threat to him. I imagine he is quite convinced that you fear him far too much to even consider revealing all of this to me.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I do fear him--more than I can describe. But I think I hate him far more than that.” He frowned, absently tearing at his own fingernails. “Do you think--I’ve learned Occlumency, my mother wanted me to and I’m decent at it--”

“Professor Snape will train you further,” Dumbledore interrupted him, his tone firm. “He is the most accomplished wizard I know in that art, and once he knows that you have come to me, he will agree--even insist--that it is necessary for your safety. And if that is questioned back at home, Severus will be able to adequately defend teaching you in order to prevent Lord Voldemort’s suspicions falling on you.”

It was the least important element of the Headmaster’s words, but Draco still felt driven to remark on it. “It isn’t home anymore,” he said quietly. “Malfoy Manor has been corrupted in my mind. Tainted.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened. “I more than understand that, my boy.”

Draco rubbed both hands over his face, drawing in a long breath before he resumed his story. “This summer was hell,” he said frankly. “Everything felt dark and horrible, all the time. I spent every minute I could locked away in my rooms, but he didn’t always allow that. Once he’d had all the people who didn’t answer the call brought to the Manor...”

“I imagine their deaths did not come swiftly.”

“No,” Draco confirmed, his voice hollow. “I spent weeks listening to endless screaming and begging. I think he enjoyed it when they pleaded to live. The screaming got louder whenever they did.”

“I am so very, terribly sorry that you endured this,” Dumbledore said softly. “No one should be subjected to such things--but you, at your young age, should have been spared exposure to these horrors.” He shook his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on the desk again. “Lord Voldemort’s cruelty is truly all-encompassing.”

“Crouch was down in the cellar with him,” Draco said. “I was never sure which of them was actually doing the torture, but it was clear from day one that Crouch enjoyed it just as much as his master. I was so terrified that he would somehow convince Voldemort to let him hurt me--over a perceived mistake of my father’s, or just because he thought I was soft.” The teen looked away, his chest tightening. “He told me that the day he turned me into a ferret here at school, he wasn’t pretending to be as mad as Moody. He truly thought I was a cowardly git who needed to be shown that I’m powerless.”

Professor Dumbledore sighed. “When Minerva told me of that incident, I did attribute it to Alastor’s eccentricity,” he mused. “I regret my oblivion. I am sorry that happened to you, Draco.”

The blonde shrugged. “People call him Mad-Eye for a reason, right? Crouch knew no one would blink at it. Professor McGonagall stopped him and that was the end of that.” He pressed his fingers against his eyes, feeling somehow as if he both had a headache, and that his head was finally beginning to feel better. “The way he’d look at me...he’s almost as predatory as Greyback.”

The Headmaster started slightly. “Ah, yes, Fenrir. He was there, too, then? Haunting your summer?”

Draco nodded. “He wouldn’t sleep in the Manor, but he was inside every day. Groveled like a damn dog, wanting Voldemort’s approval. Honestly, I don’t know--if my father angers the Dark Lord, or if he knew I came to you--I don’t know if he’d give me to Crouch, or let Fenrir have me.”

“We’ll make certain that we never find out,” Dumbledore said firmly. “So there it is, then...Lord Voldemort has returned. Harry Potter...well, I’m sure that the Dark Lord believes that no one will be able to stop him now.”

Draco snorted, and when Dumbledore looked at him, he smiled bitterly. “He knows _you_ still could. If he wasn’t scared of you, he could’ve just had Crouch get Potter’s blood somehow, and he maybe even would’ve let Crouch kill Potter himself. He’d have come back and jumped right into wrecking everything like he did before.” Draco shrugged. “But he knew he needed to hide his return from you as long as possible. And--well, if I didn’t know that owls in and out the Manor were being monitored, I might’ve cracked and written a warning to you weeks ago.”

“I am glad that you did not,” the Headmaster replied promptly. “You are correct, you would have been caught doing so--and now, you are safe here. I am better-able to protect you, as is Severus. I’m sure your godfather will appreciate your sense.”

He paused, and Draco could see that there was more that he intended to say, so he waited. At last Dumbledore folded his hands together again, gazing at Draco gravely. “First and foremost, thank you for coming to me, Draco. This took enormous courage, and what you have done will enable a resistance to form once more against Lord Voldemort.” He smiled, and Draco tremulously returned the expression before Dumbledore continued speaking. “But now, I must ask you...if at this point, you would prefer to bow out. Because if you do not, then you are choosing to take a path from which there can be no return.”

Draco hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answer--that had been settled from the moment he’d decided to answer Pansy truthfully, at the welcome feast. But putting it into words was difficult.

His mind traveled back to the numb, hurt looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces back at the Hogsmeade train platform. Draco thought of round glasses sitting on the Manor mantleplace, forever marring his memories of his family’s house, because now it was nothing more than a tomb--to a fourteen-year-old boy who had not deserved to be humiliated and murdered.

He thought of the row of people who were tortured and broken before dropping dead on the Manor lawn, and the way that Karkaroff had looked at him, as if he thought that the boy might have some power to protect him from Voldemort’s wrath.

Draco squared his shoulders, refocusing on Dumbledore. “I begin to see, now,” he said quietly. “...that the way I was raised...the things that I was taught, and spent my life being told were simply how things are...none of it is right. And if those are the beliefs and convictions of the world that Voldemort wants to build--that my father wants to see, and belong to--then I want no part of it.”

Rising from his chair, Dumbledore moved around the desk and came to Draco’s side. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, firm and comforting. “You are incredibly brave,” he told Draco gently. “The road ahead is going to be very painful, but we can do this.” The Headmaster sighed quietly, his fingers flexing against Draco’s arm. “You are...absolutely sure that Harry is dead? Not captive and being tortured, or...”

Draco shook his head immediately. “I didn’t see the body--only after it was Transfigured, but I know that he was thorough. He wouldn’t stop bragging about it.”

The older man sighed, and nodded. “Very well. I will need to ponder our next steps...while I knew that things would hardly remain quiet forever, and I have endeavored to plan for the eventuality of his return, there is much to be done.” He paced back around his desk, then glanced over at Draco. “Do you intend to commit to this completely? By which I mean, assisting the Order of the Phoenix, those of us who stand against Lord Voldemort.”

Draco’s smile twisted grimly. “If Weasley and Granger--and all the rest of Potter’s allies--are willing to trust your word and believe that my views have changed, and trust me...then I am more than ready to do the same.”

Professor Dumbledore nodded. “Indeed. Well, then. Come back to my office after your classes, and we will begin.”

* * *

Draco hadn’t realized what _beginning_ would entail, but apparently it meant jumping right into the deep end in terms of getting Potter’s best friends caught up on the current state of things.

When he knocked on the Headmaster’s study door the following afternoon, Dumbledore again called out for him to enter. Draco did so, then froze mid-step when he saw Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger sitting on a small settee that Dumbledore had conjured for them, angled to face the chair that remained from Draco being there the day before.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Dumbledore greeted him. “I hope you will forgive me--I took the liberty of informing Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger of the events you described to me. I felt that they needed to be up-to-date before you joined us.”

“Yeah, that’s...I didn’t want to repeat it,” Draco managed, his voice a little shaky. He couldn’t tell what the pair of Gryffindors were thinking, or if they were hostile towards him or not.

“No, I’d imagine not,” Dumbledore agreed. “Come, Draco, please, sit.” When Draco did so on unsteady legs, the Headmaster looked gravely at the three of them. “We are all now aware of what has transpired over the course of the summer, both during the final Tournament task and at Malfoy Manor. But there is some filling in to offer Draco in return.”

Ron and Hermione both nodded wordlessly. Ron looked a little shellshocked, and Draco supposed, then, that the redhead had likely not yet accepted that Harry Potter was never coming back. Having the news of his death confirmed was no doubt more painful than Ron would be willing to admit out loud.

Hermione, on the other hand, did look at Draco then. There was no negativity in her gaze; just sorrow, and a steely reserve that he couldn’t help thinking he had always seen in the young witch. She looked ready. When their gazes met, she nodded at him, and Draco couldn’t help returning the gesture. They were on the same side, now. All the old animosity needed to be left behind.

“I knew, of course, that _something_ had happened, something terrible,” Dumbledore went on, pacing slowly behind his desk as the three teenagers watched him. “I knew danger was coming. The Order of the Phoenix reformed in July--Draco, the Order is comprised of those who chose to openly resist Lord Voldemort the first time around, as well as some newer members, now. Several Hogwarts professors are involved, and of course Mr. Weasley’s parents. His older brothers, as well, and Remus Lupin. We have a few Aurors, too, which is a great blessing. Eyes and ears in the Ministry, and prodigious skills as individuals.”

He paused, seeming to debate something, then looked at Draco again. “You will perhaps remember your cousin, Sirius Black--he escaped from Azkaban two years ago, and has been on the run since.” At Draco’s confused now, Dumbledore at last smiled genuinely. “Well, Sirius is in the Order as well; he has graciously donated the Black family home in London, where he has been in hiding, to serve as our headquarters. You will see it eventually--Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger spent quite a bit of the summer there, with the Order. Their involvement is limited, but certainly relevant.”

Draco was reeling a bit. “Sirius--he’s, wasn’t he arrested in the first place for...for murder?”

It was Hermione who spoke, to his surprise, and there was a fondness in her voice when she answered him. “Sirius never killed anyone,” she said softly. “He’s--was--Harry’s godfather, and he was the Potters’ Secret Keeper. But he thought that Vo-Voldemort--” She tripped over the name, and no one commented. “--was onto his whereabouts, and he transferred the role to Pettigrew.”

She looked at him in question, and Draco sighed and nodded. “He’s at Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened slightly, but she pressed on. “Sirius was arrested for confronting Pettigrew--it was Peter who blew up the street and killed those bystanders. Sirius was arrested, and that horrible rat got away.” She swallowed, folding her hands; Draco could see that her knuckles were white as she struggled to stop them trembling. “This summer...it was terribly difficult, not knowing what happened to Harry. Worrying nonstop. Sirius, he...he was a great comfort to Ron and me.”

She looked to Dumbledore then, who nodded solemnly. “I have informed Sirius that we have confirmation about Harry’s loss,” he murmured. “The next time he sees you, I am sure you will be soothing company for one another. And Draco, if you are inclined, he is very interested in meeting you. He isn’t your only relative among us, either.” The Headmaster chuckled at Draco’s bewildered look. “Your aunt, Andromeda, had a daughter with her Muggleborn husband. Young Nymphadora Tonks is an Auror under Alastor Moody, and a fiercely loyal Order member. She, too, wishes to meet her cousin at last.”

“Well, that’s just surreal,” Draco muttered. “I mean, I think I knew my aunt had a child, but--I never thought I’d get to know them.” He felt himself almost smile. “I’d--I’d like to, yeah.”

There was a pause as they all processed what had been discussed. Gradually, though, Draco found himself feeling more curious than distressed. “What happened...as far as their families are concerned? Diggory and--and Harry, I mean,” he clarified, tripping a little as he used Potter’s first name.

He would never be able to apologize to the other boy’s face, but Draco could try and make amends to his memory, at least. “Do they know now?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Cedric Diggory’s possessions were sent back to his family promptly, at the beginning of the summer; this morning I spoke with them to deliver the final news. As for Harry, his Muggle relatives took it in stride. His things have been stored in the Weasleys’ attic, as they generously offered. Sirius is not yet prepared to handle sorting through that.”

Draco listened, nodding along, then raised his eyebrows. “Do they have his owl, too?”

“Yeah.” Draco started when Ron answered him, meeting the Gryffindor’s eyes and trying not to flinch at the dull grief he saw in them. “She was placed in the owlery here, since it’s familiar, but she flew to the Burrow straight-off. The Burrow’s my family’s house,” he added, at Draco’s confused look. “She stays there more often than here. My parents use her to send me mail now, so she can come visit me and Hermione.”

There was a long pause. Then Hermione shifted forward on the settee, holding Draco’s gaze. “Thank you,” she said quietly, and when Draco blinked back at her, she managed a small smile. “For what you’re doing. For what you’ve done just by--by telling us everything. You’re going to be saving a lot of lives.”

His disbelief must have shown on his face, because she breathed out a faint laugh. “I mean it,” Hermione told him firmly. “He--Voldemort knew what he was doing, trying to hide his return. He could have gotten so far before we even knew that we were truly in danger. But now the Order’s reformed, and we...we’re going to fight back.” She hesitated, searching his eyes. “All of us.”

It sounded more like a question than a statement.

The strange, lightheaded feeling that had struck Draco when he’d walked into the Headmaster’s study the day before, to tell him the truth, came back over him. It was almost like being removed from his own body, watching from above as Draco stared back at Hermione Granger before feeling an irrational sense of calm wash through him.

He stood, taking a step forward and offering his hand. Hermione looked mildly bewildered, but she rose as well to take it, and then smiled a little when Draco shook hers before turning to offer it to Ron, as well, who followed suit. “Draco Malfoy,” the blonde said quietly. “A pleasure to meet you both.” He drew a deep breath, turning to find a smile that looked almost proud, of all things, on Professor Dumbledore’s face.

“Let’s do this.”


	3. Stuck in Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Professor Umbridge looked up. 'This is school, Miss Granger, not the real world,' she said, her voice suddenly much, much softer. Warning bells went off in Draco’s head; they were treading quickly into dangerous territory."
> 
> Chapter title from "Strange" by Tokio Hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If possible, I intend to get chapters posted every Thursday. But I won't tie myself to that promise because I hope to go back to full-time work soon.
> 
> Also, to be very reassuring, this story is going to pick up the pace and get much, much more exciting.

When he returned to the Slytherin common room after the conversation with Professor Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione, Draco found Pansy waiting for him in their usual place, curled in one of the armchairs in front of the enormous stone fireplace. He’d known that she would be, and he was ready for the concerned look she sent his way. Draco just answered by nodding, giving her a reassuring smile; he wanted her to believe that he was alright.

She continued to frown, but still she took him at his word, and Draco settled in the armchair beside her to start in on their homework.

“By the way, we’ve also got to get going with our Prefect duties,” Pansy said, squinting at her Potions textbook. “In between classes we’ll need to be in the corridors, helping the first years find their way and making sure that Slytherins are all getting where they need to be, all that boring business.”

“Right.” Draco blinked, having entirely forgotten that he’d been made a Prefect. His Hogwarts letter that summer had barely caught his attention, with everything else going on. Narcissa had been incredibly proud, of course, but they had kept their celebration subdued, just a quiet tea for the three Malfoys. It had been the first time the whole summer that Lucius was pleased by something other than having the Dark Lord in their house; he’d asserted that it had been a given, since he himself had been a Prefect as well, and that Draco was representing the Malfoy name beautifully.

Digging his badge out of his school bag, Draco examined it thoughtfully. The word _Prefect_ stood out in gleaming Slytherin silver against a rich emerald background. For a moment, Draco let himself actually feel a faint glimmer of pride as he watched the firelight dancing off of the green metal.

He had been selected for this, months before he’d gone to Dumbledore--it hadn’t been favoritism or a means to an end, in terms of giving them opportunities to speak. The Headmaster had chosen him, giving him this important responsibility and--though it felt trivial in the grand scheme of things--a role of importance among his peers.

Draco pinned it in place on the collar of his robes, wondering if being a Prefect would help or hinder his sanity that year. “Any idea what fifth years the other Houses chose?”

Pansy shrugged. “Not sure about the other two, but I do know that Gryffindor’s are Granger and Weasley. No surprise about her, of course, though I’m very curious if it still would have been Weasley if Potter had still been here.” Pansy paused in her writing, tapping her quill against her nose. “Did that sound insensitive?"

“No worse than normal, for you,” Draco replied dryly. He couldn’t help relaxing a little, because this meant that there would be Prefet-related opportunities for him to speak with Ron and Hermione, as well as with Professor Dumbledore. The older wizard couldn’t have planned on that, obviously, but it was the most perfect coincidence possible.

Leaving the dungeons the next morning, Draco and Pansy were headed towards the Great Hall for breakfast when they spotted Fred and George Weasley hanging something up on the community bulletin board in the corridor.

Curious, they stopped, and found that it was an advertisement offering “part-time work” for students looking to earn some extra gold. “Must have something to do with those rumors that the Weasley twins are trying to make a business out of their pranking talents,” Pansy mused. She smirked a little. “Y’know, as Prefects we’re probably supposed to remove this and either warn them to stop, or tell Granger to, but...well, if I’m honest, I’ve always rather admired the twins’ cleverness.”

Draco chuckled, rather glad to hear her say that. He’d never considered Pansy to be a cruel person, but she had always fit in neatly with their little gang in Slytherin. He didn’t want to think about any of the nasty things he’d ever said or done to other students...but his best friend had always been right there, laughing along with the others.

Her compliment to Fred and George’s intelligence was definitely sincere, though, and it eased his mind some.

“Maybe we just didn’t see the poster, too busy talking,” he suggested, mirroring her smile. “We are very hungry, after all, and in ever such a terrible hurry to get to breakfast.” Pansy laughed and nodded, hooking her arm through his as they continued walking, leaving the advert where it was.

They entered the Great Hall under a dreary overcast and rainy sky, and Draco noticed Hermione and Ron finding seats at the Gryffindor table at the same time. They both looked a little troubled, which made Draco’s heart stutter; but Hermione turned her face, catching him looking their way, and she gave something like an aborted shrug before focusing on her plate. Draco supposed he should take that to mean that whatever they were worrying about was not potentially devastating.

Heading to the Slytherin table, he and Pansy passed by Ginny Weasley talking with Angelina Johnson. The older girl spoke quietly, asking Ginny in a gentle voice if she wanted to try out for Gryffindor’s Seeker.

Draco’s steps faltered, but he steadied himself quickly and continued moving, not looking back in case the two girls saw him trip and accused him of eavesdropping. Pansy sat down beside him on the bench, looking thoughtful. “Now that is surreal, not having Potter playing Seeker anymore. It was such a given that he’d be it for the whole time we’re in school.” She raised her eyebrows, looking at Draco curiously. “Are you going to try out again?”

Sighing, Draco shook his head, still watching Ginny peripherally as she nodded at Angelina--presumably agreeing to try for the team--before she went to join her brother and Hermione. “No, I don’t think I will this year.”

Or maybe ever again, assuming that things stayed normal enough for there to even be school, or Quidditch. A small, dark, and frightened part of Draco suddenly felt as if he might never want to fly again.

Professor Snape was walking along the Slytherin table handing out the new class schedules, and Draco watched his godfather pass by, barely looking at the course list he was given.

He wondered how the older man survived under the weight of what he had to do in order to survive as a double-agent, without Voldemort seeing through him. More importantly, Draco wondered what Dumbledore knew about the Potions master that kept his trust in the man so unshaken.

Their first lesson that day was History of Magic, which trudged on in its usual utterly dull haze. Strangely, Draco found himself paying more attention than he used to in past years. It felt as if, considering the weight of all that was going on outside of Hogwarts, the monotony and familiarity of academics was almost soothing by comparison.

Around him though, his classmates were as glassy-eyed as ever while Professor Binns droned on and on. Draco didn’t miss that Ron, per the norm, wound up dozing off within minutes, not even stirred by Hermione’s intermittent pokes as she diligently took notes.

Potions was second. Draco dropped into the first table that had two seats free, and if Pansy thought it strange since they usually sat closer to the front, she didn’t comment. Ron and Hermione sat across from them, with Hermione immediately getting her usual intent look of focus on her face as Snape entered and began speaking.

When Snape assigned them to spend the remaining hour and a half of class making a Draught of Peace, Draco got started promptly. He always worked diligently in Snape’s class, because Draco enjoyed the complexity and the science of potion-making. He knew that his high grades were the reason that other Houses often accused Snape of favoritism, but Draco wasn’t going to waste time or effort pointing out that he excelled in most of his classes, not just the one taught by the Head of Slytherin.

With ten minutes left of class, Draco and Hermione’s cauldrons were the only ones producing the expected shimmering mist of silver vaper over the surface of the solution. Snape circled the classroom leisurely, nodding approvingly at Draco--and merely looking at Hermione without comment, which was his way of admitting that there was nothing to criticize, before he called for samples to be turned in, and assigned homework.

As the class trudged out to head to lunch, Draco caught Hermione’s eyes again. She took a very quick, sweeping glance around, confirming that no one else was looking their way, and then gave him a tiny smile that seemed to say _good job_. Draco felt his own lips curve up in a return smile, nodding slightly before she turned away to catch up with Ron.

Draco didn’t see them again until Defense Against the Dark Arts, another double period. As the mob of Slytherin and Gryffindor students shuffled into the classroom, Draco overheard Ron complaining to Hermione about the heap of homework that they already had--and it was only day one of classes. From the sound of it, Draco found himself doubly glad that he did not take Divination--keeping a dream diary sounded like hell, and an utter waste of time.

Professor Umbridge was already sitting at the front desk, once again wearing the hideous, fluffy pink sweater and little black hair bow. They all sat down quietly, unsure of how she would shape up compared to her predecessors. Umbridge smiled out at them, little warmth in the expression.

“Well, good afternoon, children!” she said when finally the whole class was seated and still.

A few people mumbled, “Good afternoon,” in reply.

“Tut, tut,” said Professor Umbridge, and she actually wiggled one index finger in scolding. “That won’t do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” several people rumbled back at her obediently. Draco felt discomfort curl through his stomach.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge sweetly. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.”

She turned her back to them, raising her own wand. With a few small waves, words appeared in a swift scroll across the board. Draco eyed the frilly font of Umbridge’s handwriting, more and more certain that he was going to absolutely loathe this woman. Why had the Ministry sent one of their people to Hogwarts, when they didn’t even know that there was danger coming at all?

“Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” Umbridge remarked, turning back to face the class. “The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.” She tsked again. “You will be pleased to learn, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.” She waved her wand at the blackboard again, and the first message vanished, replaced by:

_Course aims:_

_1.Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic._

_2.Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used._

_3.Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.  
_

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the scratching of quills on parchment. Once everyone had copied down the three course aims Professor Umbridge spoke again. “Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.

“I think we’ll try that again,” said Professor Umbridge, her tone getting sickly-sweet the way it had when she had first spoken, at the welcome feast. “When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply ‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,’ or ‘No, Professor Umbridge.’ So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” the majority of the class intoned.

“Good,” said Professor Umbridge. “Now, I would like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for Beginners.’ There will be no need to talk.”

Pansy made a face at once, glancing at Draco, who nodded in wordless agreement.

Within five minutes, everyone was visibly glazing over, more so even than they had in History of Magic. Most were staring blankly at the pages, not turning them, and some were giving up and outright closing their eyes, cheeks propped on their fists.

Draco peeked over to his left, curious to see if Hermione, at least, was managing to keep her focus. To his shock, she was sitting straight up, her book untouched and unopened and her hand firmly in the air. Umbridge appeared to be looking everywhere in the room except for at Hermione.

Gradually, though, everybody was staring at Hermione, and not even pretending to still be reading, forcing Umbridge to relent.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?” she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her.

“Not about the chapter, no,” Hermione replied, lowering her hand finally.

“Well, we’re reading just now,” said Umbridge, parting her lips into a smile that was absolutely devoid of warmth. “If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” Hermione said, her tone firm.

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, looking mildly annoyed for the first time. “And your name is—?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,” Professor Umbridge said in a voice of determined sweetness, but her expression did not match her tone.

“Well, I don’t,” Hermione replied bluntly. “There’s nothing written up there about using defensive spells.”

There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard, having apparently already forgotten them. “Using defensive spells?” Umbridge repeated with a little laugh that sounded more like glass cracking than amusement. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren’t expecting to be attacked during class?”

“We’re not going to use magic?” Ron interjected loudly.

“Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.—?”

“Weasley,” said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air at once. Professor Umbridge, smiling even more widely, turned her back on him.

Hermione’s hand promptly joined Ron’s back in the air. Professor Umbridge eyed Hermione for a long moment before she called on her again. “Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?”

“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?” Umbridge asked in her falsely sweet voice. Looking at her eyes, Draco was reminded unpleasantly of a snake, or perhaps a toad, sitting completely still and waiting for its prey to come within reach of its striking teeth or tongue.

“No, I’m not, but—”

“Well then, I’m afraid you are not qualified to decide what the ‘whole point’ of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—”

“What use will that be?” Hermione cut her off by asking, sounding impatient. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t happen in a—”

“Hand, Ms. Granger!” Professor Umbridge sang out. Hermione thrust her arm back up. Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from her again, but now several other people had their hands up too. “And your name is?” Professor Umbridge asked Dean, one thin eyebrow arching.

“Dean Thomas.”

“Yes, Mr. Thomas?”

“Well, Hermione’s right, isn’t she?” Dean asked, frowning. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free—”

“I repeat,” Umbridge interrupted him, smiling in an almost creepy fashion at Dean, “do you expect to be attacked during my classes?”

“No, but—”

Professor Umbridge spoke over him. “I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school,” she said, unconvincingly, “but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention,” she gave a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

“If you mean Professor Lupin,” Dean immediately growled, “he was the best we ever—”

“Hand, Mr. Thomas! As I was saying—you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group, and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day —”

“No, we have not,” Hermione said angrily, “we just—”

“Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!” Hermione put up her hand, and Professor Umbridge turned away from her. “It is my understanding that my immediate predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them _on_ you—”

“Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he?” snapped Dean. Draco was amazed at how ardently the Gryffindor boy was backing Hermione; his own tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth as he observed the scene unfolding. “Mind you, we still learned loads—”

“Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!” trilled Professor Umbridge. “Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?” she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up along with multiple others.

“Parvati Patil; and isn’t there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. exam? Aren’t we supposed to show that we can actu-ally do the countercurses and things?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions,” Professor Umbridge replied dismissively.

“Without ever practicing them before?” Parvati asked incredulously. “Are you telling us that the first time we’ll get to do the spells will be during our exam?”

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—”

“And what good is theory going to serve us in the real world?” asked Hermione sharply, her fist in the air again.

Professor Umbridge looked up. “This is school, Miss Granger, not the real world,” she said, her voice suddenly much, much softer. Warning bells went off in Draco’s head; they were treading quickly into dangerous territory.

“So we’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s waiting for us out there?”

“There is nothing waiting out there, Miss Granger.”

“Oh, yes?” Hermione hurled back icily. Her temper appeared to be reaching its boiling point. Draco could see Ron’s hand underneath the desk, grabbing at Hermione’s other arm, and he knew very suddenly that if she did not stop, Hermione was going to blurt out the truth of Voldemort’s return right then and there.

“Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?” inquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.

“Hmm, let’s think...” said Hermione in a mockingly thoughtful voice. “Maybe Lord Voldemort?” At once, Ron winced; Lavender uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Hermione continued speaking, unfazed by her classmates’ shock at her use of the name. “And if not Voldemort himself, then his Death Eaters. He _will_ be back, and they’re ready and waiting for him to lead them again.”

Well, at least it wasn’t an outright declaration that this predicted return had already taken place.

Draco still held his breath, staring at Hermione in amazement for her sheer gall. Even in the sudden silence following her words, she did not lose her rigid posture, nor did she look away from Umbridge. Daring or not, she clearly knew that she was taking a risk.

For her part, Professor Umbridge also did not flinch at hearing the Dark Lord’s name. She was staring at Hermione with a grimly satisfied expression on her face. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger.” The classroom was silent and still, not one reaction to the point deduction. Everyone was staring back and forth between the two women. “Now, let me make a few things quite plain.” Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned toward them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk. “You have all been led, here at Hogwarts, to live in terror at the prospect of a certain Dark Wizard returning from the dead--”

“He was never dead,” Hermione hissed. “But yes, he’s going to come back!”

“Miss-Granger-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,” said Professor Umbridge in one breath, not looking at Hermione. “As I was saying; you have been given the frightening promise that you are going to eventually be faced with the return of that Dark wizard. This is a lie.”

“It is _not_ a lie!” Hermione snapped. If appeared, for all intents and purposes, that her grief and anger was finally coming to a head, and not even Ron’s white-knuckled grip on her arm was going to stop her from having this out with the horrid woman staring her back down. “He didn’t die, and there _is_ going to be another war, and we need to be _ready_ !”

“Detention, Miss Granger!” Umbridge declared, her tone triumphant. “Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about Dark wizards returning, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’” With that, Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again.

Hermione, however, stood up, jostling her desk hard enough that Ron’s ink well tumbled from it and shattered on the stone floor. Everyone seemed to be holding their collective breath; they all looked half-scared, half-fascinated. “‘Mione, no!” Ron whispered desperately, tugging at her sleeve, but Hermione merely jerked her arm out of his reach.

“So, according to you, Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory just vanished off the face of the earth of their own accord, did they?” she asked Umbridge, her voice shaking. There was a collective intake of breath from the class; Draco guessed that none of them apart from Ron had ever heard Hermione mention her missing--dead, but they didn’t know that--best friend, or talk about the night that he and Cedric had disappeared. The class looked avidly from Hermione to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring back at Hermione without a trace of that fake smile left on her face.

“Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter going missing was a tragic accident, and one that will be solved, no doubt with a happy conclusion,” she said coldly.

“It was Voldemort,” Hermione fired back. She was visibly shaking, her face pale and eyes blazing. “Voldemort and his people were responsible, and you know it. You _know_ that they’re both dead.”

Professor Umbridge’s face was quite blank. For a moment, Draco thought she was actually going to break down and scream at Hermione. Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, “Come here, Miss Granger, dear.”

Hermione shoved her chair aside, striding around Ron and up to the front desk. The entire class was holding its breath. Draco wasn’t sure if he felt more admiration, or fear for Hermione.

Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, and started scribbling, hunched over to conceal what she was writing. Nobody spoke, or even seemed to be breathing. After a moment, she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that Hermione could not open it. “Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” Umbridge instructed, holding out the note to her.

Hermione took it from her without saying a word and left the room, not even looking back at Ron. She slammed the class-room door shut behind her. 

In the ringing silence that followed her departure, Ron’s gaze jumped briefly to Draco, who could only give him a wide-eyed look of shared concern. At least it was McGonagall Hermione had to go see--knowing the Transfiguration professor, she would support Hermione’s actions and words, though she would certainly advise against the teenager ever voicing her feelings so publicly again.

The Order had a unique advantage with Voldemort not knowing that they were aware of his return, and they needed to preserve that for as long as possible.

He didn’t catch even a glimpse of Hermione again until dinner, by which point the entire castle had apparently heard about the shouting match. People were whispering, and Draco heard snippets of it as he walked through the corridors--some questioning how Hermione could be so certain that Potter and Diggory were dead, and others why she was convinced that You-Know-Who’s return was guaranteed.

Draco’s mind drifted back to the memorial for Diggory and Potter, two months before, and Dumbledore’s words about losing the two young men. The Headmaster had described Cedric as an exemplary Hufflepuff; a good man, hard worker, fierce and loyal. And Harry, kind and selfless, always committed to defending others.

In the wake of their unexplained losses, faced with so much uncertainty and fear, Dumbledore had urged them all that Hogwarts would need now, more than ever, to stand unified. “We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. We can fight darkness by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open....we are all facing dark and difficult times. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy, remember two boys who were good, and kind, and brave. Remember Cedric Diggory, and Harry Potter.”

At the time, Draco had been barely listening to Professor Dumbledore. He’d been so afraid, watching the others with Death Eater parents eyeing Dumbledore scornfully; so worried about what he was going to find at home.

Now, though, the words sank into his gut, renewing his resolve.

When the majority of the meal was over, and the whispering has not stopped or even lessened, Draco saw Ron speak quietly to Hermione before the pair rose to leave, pointedly ignoring the sidelong looks being flung their way. Draco wished desperately that he could follow, could talk to them about what had happened in class--but there was no way to do so without seeming suspicious, and so he was forced to remain in his seat, picking at his treacle tart as they disappeared.

* * *

The second day of classes dawned just as grim and wet as the first. They had double Charms and Transfiguration, bringing Gryffindor and Slytherin together again, and Draco and Pansy once again sat across the row from Ron and Hermione.

The professors, it seemed, intended to spend the year fixating on the importance of the students’ O.W.L.s. preparation. The Charms classwork was review and practice for the Summoning Charm, with an abnormally high amount of homework assigned at the end.

In Transfiguration, they started on Vanishing Spells, which were N.E.W.T. level, but would require an early start due to the difficulty and complexity of the spellwork. By the end of the class, Draco felt as if his brain was actually physically exhausted as they started off towards lunch, and then onward to Care of Magical Creatures.

Approaching the paddocks near Hagrid’s still-empty hut, Draco immediately recognized the creatures piled on the table beside Professor Grubbly-Plank. When she asked them if anyone knew the name, though, Draco didn’t bother competing with Hermione as she raised her hand at once. It was a little too endearing, if he was honest.

Beside him and a little behind, Crabbe muttered something mocking, and added a rude-looking parody mocking Hermione’s enthusiasm. Goyle and Blaise laughed at once, and even Pansy smiled a little. Draco swallowed, trying to look as if he hadn’t heard or noticed the behavior, because he could not find it in himself to even feign finding it amusing.

The bowtruckles all startled up onto their tiny twig-like feet at the laughter, and Professor Grubbly-Plank threw them some food, continuing the lesson. Hermione, who hadn’t noticed or at least wasn’t acknowledging the taunting behind her, earned Gryffindor five points for labeling the bowtruckles, and then another five for knowing that their diet was woodlice or fairy eggs.

They were instructed to study and then draw the bowtruckles. As he went to his station to stand between Pansy and Theo, Draco paused when he overheard Ron quietly get Professor Grubbly-Plank’s attention before asking her where Hagrid was. The professor’s mouth thinned, and she just shook her head, telling Ron to never mind about that.

Crabbe, it seemed, had heard him too, and he sneered. “Maybe he’s finally gone and gotten himself really injured,” he guffawed, grinning nastily over at Ron as the ginger rejoined Hermione and Neville at the next table.

Draco stilled for a second before forcing himself to continue working, pretending to focus intently on the bowtruckle as he fed it a few woodlice in order to get it to stay still for him to take a closer look.

Ron, however, looked utterly pissed off at Crabbe. He ignored Hermione as she tugged at his arm and whispered for him to ignore it, glancing worriedly around at the other Slytherins. Draco returned her look fleetingly, his brow furrowed, but he did not dare show any outward signs of support. “Maybe _you'll_ be really injured if you don’t shut your mouth,” Ron snapped, low enough that Professor Grubbly-Plank did not notice the rising tension.

Crabbe’s grin widened, clearly pleased with himself for getting a rise out of Ron. “Bet you he finally messed around with stuff that’s too big for him,” he mocked, abandoning any effort with the bowtruckles. Ron opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione stepped on his foot, and he finally fell silent, though he continued to glare at Crabbe. Draco shook his head incrementally, having to simply hope that Hermione would see the small gesture.

Draco was certain, absolutely and completely, that if Hagrid had been hurt, Dumbledore would know it, and he would have told the Gryffindors. Hagrid was their friend, a dear one. The Headmaster would never keep that sort of information from them.

But Crabbe wasn’t done. He was now talking more pointedly to his own Housemates, though he did nothing to lower his volume. “Isn’t the Ministry cracking down on the types of teachers here? They put in Umbridge, after all--I bet you even if that giant oaf comes back, he’d be sent packing straightaway.”

Ron suddenly cursed in pain; his bowtruckle had scratched his hand for gripping it too tightly, and when he dropped it, it took off towards the Forbidden Forest at a sprint, vanishing into the shadows. Hermione immediately dragged Ron to another table, farther away, trying to help him stop the bleeding from the shallow cuts while Crabbe and Goyle cackled as they resumed their work.

Heading to the greenhouses for the next class, they were met by Ginny and Luna Lovegood, emerging together from their fourth year Herbology lesson. Ginny greeted her brother and friend in passing, but Luna paused, huge eyes fixed on Hermione. “I heard about the things you said to that horrid new teacher,” she told Hermione, her voice loud enough to carry and therefore making multiple people stop to listen in. “And I agree with you. There’s every chance He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is already back--but even if he’s not, he will be. And it’s him, or his people, who’re to blame for Harry Potter being gone.”

With that, she walked away without another word, leaving Hermione looking stunned but also rather pleased.

Draco watched Luna head for the castle, recalling that it was she who he’d heard mention thestrals on the school carriages on the first night back. Clearly, there was more to Luna Lovegood than the claims that she was just as crazy as her father.

As they entered the greenhouse proper, Ernie Macmillan was the next to approach Hermione. “It’s not just the school weirdos who support you,” he informed her loudly, chest puffed out a bit. “I’m behind you completely. My family has always stood by Dumbledore and his views, and so will I. If you and Dumbledore think that You-Know-Who’s coming back--or already might be--then I believe that.”

This display clearly had several students looking confused and a little unsure, torn between trusting Hermione’s well-known reliability, and the security of choosing not to fear the Dark Lord’s return. Draco made his way over to his usual place across from Ron and Hermione, inwardly relieved that Hermione was getting some vocal support. He couldn’t share in offering her that, but it eased his mind some to know that her defiance towards Umbridge wasn’t leaving her completely ostracized by her Housemates.

She more than deserved that, after the losses she’d suffered, and with the challenges that lay ahead of them still.

He later passed Ron and Hermione again in the entrance hall, just in time to hear Hermione say that she would need to eat quickly because she had her bloody detention with that toad at 5’o’clock. Hearing Hermione Granger swear was startling--but also rather amusing, Draco had to admit. It seemed that Umbridge had unlocked a previously-unseen side of the normally-calm Gryffindor girl.

When she did eventually head off on her way to Umbridge’s office, Draco’s stomach twisted, worried about what she could be walking into. At breakfast, he saw that she was frantically writing, seemingly trying to catch up on the mountain of homework the fifth years were already drowning beneath. She looked tired and drawn, barely responsive to anyone until Ron nudged her onto her feet.

The third day of classes continued as the first two had; difficult classwork, extra heaps of homework, and the professors all preaching incessantly about their O.W.L.s. preparations.

Friday night seemed to take an entire year to arrive. Theo and Blaise were both planning on going out for the Slytherin Quidditch team, and Draco obliged their invitation for him to watch them practicing after dinner just before the Gryffindor tryouts were due to begin.

They stayed once Gryffindor’s team arrived, joining Draco in the stands and observing as Angelina tested out potential Keepers and Seekers. Ginny Weasley was there as promised, and she flew in fine form; it was quickly obvious that she was the best choice to take over Harry Potter’s former position.

The real surprise, though, was Ron also turning up. Draco watched curiously as the competition wound down to being between Ron and another boy who Draco didn’t know, though Theo said he thought his name was “something-or-other Hooper.”

Hooper certainly flew better, but after three rounds of each boy practicing deflecting goals being scored by the team’s Chasers, it was rather obvious who would be a better fit with the team. Even when Hooper made a successful save, he seemed determined to complain about something, ranging from someone flying too close to the goal posts and distracting him, to the Chasers not throwing the Quaffle in a manner authentic to how a match would go.

Ron was named Keeper, and Draco had to force himself to his feet with a mention of needing to tackle homework in order to avoid Blaise and Theo asking why he didn’t join them in jeering at the announcement. Draco didn’t know if Ron was even aware that he was present at the tryouts, but he was not going to let the Gryffindor see him mocking him, even pretend.

It suddenly felt like a lifetime ago that he had been made Slytherin’s Seeker, more pleased for a chance to compete against Potter than he was even to just play a sport he loved.

He had entered the castle and was en route to the Slytherin common room when Draco ran headlong into Hermione, startling them both and causing her to drop her book bag, which Draco promptly gathered up to hand back to her.

She smiled tiredly at him, more openly and warmly than usual and without seeming concerned about them being seen together. It was Draco who looked around worriedly. Hermione seemed to understand that, and to Draco’s surprise, she just beckoned wordlessly; he followed her, bewildered as she walked several feet away--and then pulled aside a tapestry to reveal a hidden alcove that was concealed from view in the corridor by the wide base of a statue of Lachlan the Lanky.

“Not exactly ideal for conversation, but--well, it’s hidden,” she whispered, shrugging as she set her bag down at her feet and leaned back against the stone wall. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. “Are you okay? Where were you coming from?”

“Quidditch tryouts,” Draco explained, his voice just as low. “I mean, it was your House, not mine, but some of my friends were practicing beforehand, so I stayed to watch with them.” He nearly added Ron’s unexpected appearance and success, but then managed to bite his tongue; if Hermione hadn’t already known that her best friend was going out for the team, then it ought to be Ron’s privilege to tell her he’d made it.

“Right, I forgot that was tonight--well, I hope Angelina was pleased,” Hermione said wearily, raising her hand to brush some loose hair back from her face. “I suppose Ginny’s--”

“What’s on the back of your hand?” Draco had frozen, staring at the angry red lines that marred her pale skin.

Immediately she tried to drop her arm, a flush spreading across her cheeks and her eyes dropping away from his as fast as if she thought she’d spotted a basilisk. “It’s just a cut--it’s nothing, really--”

Draco didn’t even hesitate before grabbing her wrist, startling a squeak from her as he lifted her hand into the torchlight edging around the sides of the tapestry that hid them from view. He stared at the small lines carved into her flesh, which shaped the words _I must not question authority_ on the back of her hand. “Granger, what the hell is this?”

Hermione bit her bottom lip, looking suddenly as if she might cry. Draco released her hand, and she covered the cuts with the other, taking several deep breaths before she met his eyes again. “It’s her--it’s the detentions with Umbridge. She has this horrid black quill--when I went in, she said I was doing lines, and then told me to use her quill instead of mine. It was writing with crimson ink and I didn’t realize until the cuts started appearing on my hand--the quill uses--”

“Your own blood,” Draco managed, his voice strangled. If he hadn’t been so repulsed, he had a feeling he might have been shouting.

She sighed, cradling her hand to her chest. “The first day the marks healed over fairly quickly after I left her office, but now they’re lasting...I need to get a hold of some essence of murtlap, but I can’t exactly go and ask Madam Pomfrey--”

Draco shook his head vehemently, sickened both at what she was enduring, and at the fact that she hadn’t yet gone to a higher authority for assistance. “That’s...that’s despicable. You need to tell McGonagall--or Dumbledore--”

“I can’t do that,” Hermione cut him off firmly, some of her distress evaporating and being replaced by a more familiar ferocity. Her hazel eyes blazed, her jaw tightening with defiance and self-assurance. “I can’t let her know she’s getting to me.”

Before Draco could even begin to argue with the stupidity of that thought, they both froze at the sound of footsteps crossing through the entrance hall. Blaise and Theo’s voices were audible, laughing and chatting as they came back into the castle; they walked directly past where Draco and Hermione were hidden, heading down to the Slytherin dorms.

Hermione’s voice was back to a whisper, so quiet it was nearly inaudible. “You have to go, Draco, they’ll wonder why you didn’t beat them down to the dungeons. Go on--please, it’s fine, I’m fine.”

He opened his mouth, intending to keep arguing for her to report Umbridge’s abuse. But Hermione merely shook her head, offering a sad, tight smile before she peeked out around the tapestry. With the coast clear, she grabbed her book bag and took off ahead of him, going toward the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower.

Draco stayed where he was for several long moments, utterly shaken by the sadism that Umbridge was apparently willing to stoop to. It was the first bloody week of term, and she was torturing a student--literally drawing blood--in retaliation for just standing up to her.

Finally he forced his feet to move, dragging himself the rest of the way to the dungeons. Theo was by the fireplace, alone, and looked up as he entered, eyebrows rising curiously. “Where’d you come from? Thought you’d be here after leaving the pitch.”

Draco offered him a weak smile. “I, uh, swung by the kitchen to ask the house elves for a snack. Brain fuel, for...homework.” Theo just nodded, easily satisfied by that answer, and Draco forced himself to join his Housemate, though he knew he wasn’t going to get much work done tonight. His mind was whirling, stuck on the image of those words etched into Hermione’s skin.

* * *

Saturday morning had Draco climbing up to the owlery with a reply to a letter from his mother. Draco didn’t have much to say--or more aptly, he had loads to say, but he couldn’t voice a word of it in case the letter fell into the wrong hands--and he did not want her to worry too badly about him. His letter was brief and rather bland, talking about their impending O.W.L.s, and the dismal autumn weather, before concluding that he was glad to be back at school, and he and Pansu were enjoying being Prefects.

Entering the owlery, he stopped in his tracks when he saw Hedwig the snowy owl nestled comfortably in one of the lower nooks lining the walls. She blinked awake at the sound of his footsteps halting, staring back at Draco sleepily as he walked slowly across the chilly room to where she was roosting.

“Thought you were staying at the Burrow now,” he said quietly, watching her blink oh-so-slowly back at him. “They’ve got plenty of owls, too, you can’t be lonely living there. And Ron’s dad could probably send you to some interesting Ministry people on errands, if you get bored.”

He reached out his hand reflexively, too used to being affectionate with owls to worry that she might not return the civility. But Hedwig willingly allowed him to scratch the top of her hand lightly, and then turned to give his fingers a light, seemingly friendly nibble.

“Do you miss him?” Draco whispered, watching her amber eyes shifting rapidly as she inspected his face just as intently as he was looking at her. “I can’t imagine that you wouldn’t. Always seemed like you were particularly close, for an owl and a human. Wonder if that was your personality, or if he just...really needed a friend. I think you were one of his first magical connections, besides Hagrid.”

Draco remembered, vaguely, the first time he’d ever met Harry--and he had bunged that meeting right up, being a smarmy, arrogant little git in Madam Malkin’s robe shop--that neither Harry nor Hagrid had been carrying an owl cage at the time. They must have gone on to purchase her afterward.

Hedwig abruptly fluttered forward, startling Draco out of his reverie as she hopped her way up to settle on his shoulder. He stared up at her face, wide-eyed, and then let out a snort of laughter. “What, are you adopting me now? That’s just _odd_ , do you even know who I am? Or how much your owner hated me?”

The owl simply hooted quietly, clicking her beak in an oddly scolding manner, and Draco had the distinct feeling that if she’d had a voice, she’d be saying, _Not hated, no._

She bobbed her head, clicking her beak again, and then Draco remembered the letter that he was holding at his side. He hesitated, gnawing on his bottom lip pensively. “It’s...it’s got to go to Malfoy Manor, Hedwig. I’m not sure that would be the most sensible place for you to turn up.” Draco winced, imagining this beautiful creature’s fate if any of the Death Eaters somehow recognized her, and told Voldemort whose she had been.

Thinking it over, though, he abruptly smiled. “Wait, I’ve got it. Mother has high tea in the city on Tuesdays. They can hold it for her for a few days.” Draco dug out a quill, marking the envelope to be addressed _C/O Narcissa Malfoy, via Cutter & Squidge, London _, and then tapped Hedwig’s wing for her to extend her leg and let him to tie it to her. “Thank you. I really appreciate it, Hedwig.”

The owl hooted again, nipping gently at his fingers one more time, and then she took off through the owlery window.

Draco watched her until she was nothing but a tiny black dot in the sky, and then she vanished. His eyes drifted downward, over to Hagrid’s hut, clearly visible from this vantage point--and still clearly uninhabited, the chimney smokeless, the curtains drawn.

The treetops of the Forbidden Forest swayed in a light breeze morning. Draco watched them, savoring the fresh air on his face, and wondering with some lingering worry if Hermione had admitted to Ron yet how Umbridge had been torturing her during detention.

And then he saw it--an enormous, reptilian winged horse, the same as the ones pulling the Hogwarts carriages, with leathery black wings spread wide like a pterodactyl’s. It rose up out of the trees like a giant bird, dark and foreboding; soared in a long circle; and then plunged once more into the trees. The whole thing happened so quickly that Draco could almost doubt that he had seen it at all, except that his heart was hammering wildly, long after the creature--the thestral--vanished from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy the story, please leave a comment. Even just, "Cool, keep writing it!" keeps the motivation flowing. <3


	4. The Bravest Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There was an odd feeling in the group now. It was as though they had just signed some kind of contract."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep apologies for the day-late posting--naturally I tell you all that Thursdays will be the norm right before I fly back to California to spend a week with my family. I got to meet my four-month-old nephew yesterday, so I wound up not finishing this chapter until 2am Pacific time.
> 
> Now, on we go!

Draco hadn't gone into the Forbidden Forest any time recently, aside from the paddock area where Hagrid kept the hippogriffs in third year. He didn’t think he’d ever been in this part of the Forest, either. He still had nightmares sometimes of a dark hooded figure leaning over a fallen unicorn, silver blood running down the creature’s chin…

It was surreal, to know that Voldemort had been that creature, possessing the body of Professor Quirrell. The figure that had haunted Draco’s mind since his first year had been the very same...man...who haunted him now. The man he was defying, the man he was betraying, along with all of the other Death Eaters save for Snape. And he was risking his life to do it. But no matter. If he tried reflecting on it, his mind would end up imploding in on itself, and that wouldn't do anyone any good.

Following the trajectory point where he had seen the thestral flying from the trees from the viewpoint of the Owlery, Draco eventually found an old foot path, one that clearly wasn’t used very often, and he followed it until the trees opened up a little more, revealing a small clearing. The castle was still partially in sight, but now he could see where the thestrals were, and with the herd there was a familiar figure with long, pale blond hair.

“Hello, Draco Malfoy.” The soft, whimsical voice of the Ravenclaw girl startled him, since her back was still turned to him, and Draco turned his head as if expecting to see some other Draco Malfoy behind him. When he looked back at Luna, she was watching him with her large pale eyes. The intensity of her gaze reminded him of Dumbledore, like she could somehow see straight into his head, and Draco looked down reflexively, an instinct ingrained within him, only to notice something odd.

“...This may sound like a very stupid question,” Draco said, “but are you barefoot?”

Luna just nodded serenely, not seeming perturbed by this, despite the chilly weather no doubt prickling at the bare skin of her exposed feet. “Oh yes,” she said pleasantly. “Many of my shoes have gone missing already this year. I suspect nargles are behind it.”

And this was, Draco realized, the main reason most everyone called this girl “Loony” Lovegood. He didn’t know much about the Lovegoods in general, but he did know enough, through Lucius’ mutterings. Xenophilius Lovegood ran the Quibbler, a tabloid magazine that held the oddest of stories, such as conspiracy theories about high members of the Ministry, and odd creatures that had never been seen or heard of before. Though it did also contain some of the more decent crossword puzzles Draco had come across.

One sentence from Luna was enough to make him realize that whatever odd beliefs Xenophilius held, Luna shared them.

He opened his mouth briefly, thought better of his initial reaction, and then shut it again before thinking of something nicer to say. “Well…how dreadfully rude of them.”

Luna reached into the bag she was carrying, drawing out a slab of what appeared to be raw meat. As Draco watched, she threw it several feet away onto the ground, and after a moment of curious sniffing, one of the thestral foals hobbled forward on impossibly bony legs, and snatched it up with his odd, hooked muzzle.

“You can see them, too,” Luna said, looking at Draco for confirmation. When he nodded, she smiled. “It’s alright, they know that humans can find them unsettling sometimes. I don’t think they know why; but they do know that not everyone can see them.”

“Why are we able to, and not others?” Draco asked, moving closer as Luna proceeded to toss another piece of meat. The thestrals clearly trusted her, and her lack of concern over Draco’s presence had them accepting his proximity, as well. “I feel like I should know, but I...I’ve only ever heard of them fleetingly.”

“That’s the case for most,” Luna replied, obligingly rubbing the nose of one of the older thestrals, who had approached her with the air of a creature that knew and was very fond of this human. “For one thing, not all parents can see them, so they don’t know to teach their children about them; and for another, superstitious types often incorrectly label them bad omens. It’s silly, like fearing black cats or dead ravens, but people do think funny things sometimes.”

Draco glanced at her, wondering if she knew that most everyone would promptly say that about her and her father. “I suppose so.”

Luna shrugged. “To answer your question, though, they’re only visible to humans who have witnessed death first hand—hence the omen nonsense.” She tore a chunk from the next piece of raw meat, hand-feeding it to a smaller foal that inched up to her with some gentle nudging from its parent.

Igor Karkaroff’s face flashed through Draco’s mind. He winced, swallowing hard and looking back at Luna. “Who did you...”

“My mum,” she said, unbothered by the personal inquiry. “She was quite an extraordinary witch, but she did like to experiment. One day one of her projects went quite badly wrong. I was nine.”

“I’m so sorry,” Draco said quietly, and Luna smiled over at him with a mixture of gratitude and serenity.

“Yes, it was rather horrible, but it was so long ago,” Luna said, shrugging as she divided up the last bits of meat among the foals, who were now more confident in approaching her. “And she wouldn’t want me to be sad forever, after all. I’ve still got Dad.”

She cleaned her hand of the meat traces, then pulled out two apples from a different pocket of the bag. When she offered Draco one, he paused. Then, unable to help smiling back at her, he accepted the fruit and took a large bite, following her over to a fallen log. They say side-by-side, watching the thestrals rooting along the Forest floor.

“You’re different now,” Luna remarked, and when Draco raised his eyebrows, she elaborated. “You’ve always been rather...well, I don’t want to say rude, but—“

“I’ve been very rude,” Draco assured her, snorting a laugh. If she was always this direct, then her eccentric beliefs would seem like nothing compared to the pure refreshing effect of conversing so openly with someone. “I was an absolute arse for the last four years.”

“Not always—but sometimes, yes,” Luna agreed. She laughed as well, a soft tinkling sound like bells, and it made her face seem to shine like a burst of sunshine. “But I suppose it’s all different now. I saw Hermione Granger smile at you after class the first day.” Luna looked at him solemnly, those enormous eyes once more seeming to see straight to his soul. “I’m glad you’re being nicer to her now, but I’d be careful about some of the less respectful Slytherins seeing it.”

Draco nodded slowly. “I know,” he said, his voice much quieter. “There’s...there’s quite a lot at stake.” He frowned, glancing at her sideways. “Luna, you—the other day, coming out of Herbology, you spoke to her—“

Luna nodded promptly. “Dad has said my whole life that He Who Must Not Be Named will come back, and Hermione was best friends with Harry Potter. You can’t be that without facing the facts. Every year when they’ve gotten into all kinds of danger, and managed to stop You Know Who again and again, I just kept thinking, ‘One day it won’t work. One day it will be harder.’” She sighed, using her wand to carefully slice her apple into bite-sized pieces. “I suppose it will mean a war.”

“Yes, it will,” Draco murmured. “And...and you were right, Luna. It was finally not enough.”

She looked over at him in mild surprise, her already-enormous eyes widening slightly. “Are you sure?” When Draco nodded again, miserably, Luna took a long, deep breath. “Well,” she said more quietly. “We’d all best watch out for each other even more closely, then."

* * * *

Draco hadn’t been sure what the outcome of confiding in another schoolmate would be, but it didn’t take long to find out. He and Luna returned to the castle for dinner, separating before they could be spotted walking across the lawn together. Draco was quiet during the meal, aside from assuring Pansy and the others that he was perfectly alright, just swamped with homework.

He opted to attend study hall that night, trying to make at least some headway on the mountain of assignments. As he approached the classroom full of students from every House, Draco paused at the sight of Ginny Weasley coming from the opposite end of the corridor. She saw him as well, but her steps didn’t slow; and then just before she reached the doorway, to his surprise, she offered him an outright polite smile. “Alright, Malfoy?"

Draco nodded, stunned. “You?”

She shrugged, hugging her book bag to her chest. “Surviving, as usual.” Then she continued walking, stepping into the light spilling out of the study room, and when Draco entered as well, it was as if they hadn’t spoken, or even so much as looked at each other.

But Draco felt something warm shift inside his chest. Luna must have told Ginny about her conversation with him, as they were in the same year and classes. If not Luna, then perhaps Ron and Hermione. But either way, they were affirming to one another that Draco was an ally. And that, more than anything thus far that week, planted a dangerously strong feeling of hope inside Draco’s heart.

His moment of happiness was dimmed slightly with the arrival of the Daily Prophet the following morning; there was a general feeling of unrest in the Great Hall as people read and passed around the paper, and Draco finally dragged his mind back to the present enough to ask the other Slytherins what was up. Pansy merely rolled her copy of the Prophet to him, and once he unfurled it, Draco didn’t need to ask for clarification: Umbridge’s unpleasant face was staring back at him, blinking and smiling fakely beneath the headline: _Ministry Seeks Educational Reform: Delores Umbridge Appointed First-Ever “High Inquisitor.”_

Draco scanned the article swiftly, wincing at more than one element of the report. “...so that’s how she wound up here?” he asked finally, setting the paper aside and resuming his breakfast. “Fudge passed some decree in order to take over the power of hiring?”

“Seems to be so,” Theo remarked, skimming over it with a sweeping look as he ate his toast. “And this _Inquisitor_ role means that she can ‘inspect’ the professors, whatever that bloody means.”

Blaise smirked. “Oh, blimey. Wonder how Snape’ll take her meddling.”

“Or McGonagall,” Pansy snickered. “That might actually be entertaining. I don’t think I’ve seen McGonagall fazed even once in five years so far.”

Even Draco did have to smile at that; she had a point. “Well, let’s get to it, then...”

They made it through the morning’s classes without actually seeing Umbridge--but word spread quickly from the students who did witness these “inspections.” Fred and George Weasley were heard assuring some of Flitwick’s choir students that she hadn’t seemed to object to anything. Over lunch, there was some general commotion at the Gryffindor table, because according to Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil--who rather worshiped the ground that Professor Trelawney walked on--Umbridge had essentially attacked the Divination professor and been far too mocking and condescending for it to even possibly be a fair assessment of the class.

For all that Draco agreed with the general consensus that Divination was nonsense and Trelawney was barmy, he had to admit--from the sounds of it, Umbridge had truly been nasty to the other woman, and he actually felt a stirring of sympathy for Trelawney.

First thing after lunch, though, Umbridge was back in her own classroom, and Draco took his place between Blaise and Pansy, glancing curiously over at Ron and Hermione. Hermione’s eyes were locked attentively on where Umbridge was seated at her desk, humming and smiling to herself as she waited for them all to get situated; Ron caught Draco’s look, and gave the tiniest hint of a grimace; he, too, was clearly assuming that Hermione would not take any of Umbridge’s nonsense in silence today.

“Wands away,” she instructed them, still with that maddening false smile, and those people who had been hopeful enough to take them out sadly returned them to their bags. “As we finished chapter one last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence chapter two, ‘Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.’ There will be no need to talk.” Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat down at her desk.

“No need to think, is more like.” Hermione managed to keep the remark low enough that if Umbridge did hear it, she did not have to acknowledge it, and Draco saw in his peripheral that Ron shook his head at her at once--but to no avail. Even as the class gave an audible sigh and turned to page nineteen, Hermione had her hand in the air again.

Professor Umbridge noticed this quickly, and what was more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend she had not noticed Hermione, she got to her feet and walked around the front row of desks until they were face-to-face, then she bent down and whispered, so that the rest of the class could not hear, “What is it this time, Miss Granger?”

“I’ve already read chapter two,” said Hermione.

“Well then, proceed to chapter three.”

“I’ve read that too. I’ve read the whole book.” Hermione did not look away from the professor’s face, and if he hadn’t been tensed from head to foot wondering how this was going to end, Draco might have taken a moment to be impressed by Hermione’s sheer determination. She was not just battling this woman, she was doing it fully-prepared and well-armed.

Professor Umbridge blinked at that reply, but recovered her poise almost instantly. “Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter fifteen.”

“He says that counterjinxes are improperly named,” Hermione answered promptly. “He says ‘counterjinx’ is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.”

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, and Draco knew that she was impressed against her will. “But I disagree,” Hermione continued.

Umbridge’s eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder. “You disagree?”

“Yes, I do,” Hermione said; unlike Umbridge, she was not whispering, but speaking in a clear, carrying voice that had by now attracted the rest of the class’s attention. “Mr. Slinkhard doesn’t like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be very useful when they’re used defensively.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” said Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper and straightening up. “Well, I’m afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard’s opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger.”

“But—” Hermione began, clearly gearing up to handle the impending duel of words.

“That is enough,” said Professor Umbridge. She walked back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone. “Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor House.”

There was an outbreak of muttering at this. “What for?” Ron burst out angrily, despite his previous efforts to contain Hermione. Draco couldn’t help being grateful to the redhead, because he couldn’t dare risk speaking up on Hermione’s behalf.

“Don’t you get involved!” Hermione whispered at Ron sharply, still not looking away from Umbridge’s toad-like face.

“For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions,” said Professor Umbridge smoothly. “I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little. Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more license, but as none of them—with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects—would have passed a Ministry inspection—”

“Oh yes, Quirrell was a wonderful teacher,” Hermione interrupted her at once, looking and sounding utterly disgusted that this was the stance that Umbridge was taking. “There was just that minor drawback of him having Lord Voldemort in the back of his head.”

This pronouncement was followed by one of the loudest silences that Draco had ever heard--which was saying something, after a summer spent with the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters occupying Malfoy Manor. Umbridge’s face seemed contorted halfway between triumph and fury. “I think another week’s detentions would do you some good, Miss Granger,” she said at last, her tone far more sleek and pleasant than her expression.

To Draco’s immense surprise, Hermione did not look nearly as concerned as he felt she ought to, now that he knew what detentions with Umbridge entailed. On the contrary, Hermione merely arched one eyebrow pointedly, though she stunned all by keeping silent.

Umbridge stared her down a moment longer, seemingly distrusting the lack of retort, before turning to trundle back up to her desk. “Chapter two, students!”

There was a rustle of pages turning, though Draco did not miss that multiple pairs of eyes continued darting towards Hermione, wondering and waiting for her to speak up again. But she did not.

Umbridge reappeared in their Transfiguration class during the next period, which prompted a great deal of muttering and questioning looks both at Hermione, and Professor McGonagall. Draco could tell that there was a general curiosity as to which witch would be more likely to lose their calm and scream outright at Umbridge.

Professor McGonagall marched into the room without giving the slightest indication that she even knew Professor Umbridge was there. “That will do,” she said sharply, and the muttering fell silent immediately. “Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework—Miss Brown, please take this box of mice—don’t be silly, girl, they won’t hurt you—and hand one to each student—”

From her corner, Professor Umbridge employed the same ghastly little cough that she had used to interrupt Dumbledore on the first night of term. Professor McGonagall ignored her. “Right then, everyone, listen closely—Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again I shall put you in detention—most of you have now successfully vanished your snails and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the spell. Today we shall be—”

“ _Hem, hem_ ,” Umbridge chirped again, a touch louder this time.

“Yes?” said Professor McGonagall, turning round, her eyebrows so close together they seemed to form one long, severe line.

“I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec—”

“Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom,” said Professor McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of glee. “As I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing Spell—”

“H _em, hem_.”

“I wonder,” said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge, “how do you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking.”

Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just been slapped in the face. She did not speak, but straightened the parchment on her clipboard and began scribbling furiously. Looking supremely unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addressed the class once more. “As I was saying, the Vanishing Spell becomes more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on your dinner. So; you know the incantation, let me see what you can do....”

Professor Umbridge did not follow Professor McGonagall around the class; perhaps she thought that Professor McGonagall would not permit it. She did, however, take many more notes while she sat in her corner, and when Professor McGonagall finally told them all to pack away, rose with a grim expression on her face.

When the class ended, Professor Umbridge approach the teacher’s desk; without any communication among them, Ron, Hermione, and Draco all took longer than necessary in placing their mice--Hermione’s was fully Vanished, Draco’s invisible but for its tail, and Ron’s seemed to be semi-transparent--back in the shoebox, and then gathering their things, allowing them to fall back and eavesdrop. Draco waved his Housemates on, over-emphasizing that his book and notes were still all spread out over the desk.

“How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?” Professor Umbridge asked, making a final note when McGonagall answered her briskly. “Very well,” she said, “you will receive the results of your inspection in ten days’ time.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Professor McGonagall in a coldly indifferent voice, and she strode off toward the door without a backwards glance at the now-furious-faced Umbridge. “Hurry up, you three,” McGonagall added, sweeping Draco, Ron, and Hermione on before her. In the shuffle of them leaving, Draco felt something press into the palm of his hand, and he closed his fingers around it without question.

It was a tightly-folded piece of parchment, but they were heading towards Care of Magical Creatures--and the other Slytherins were waiting on the castle steps to accompany Draco down to Hagrid’s paddock, so he pocketed the note for the time being.

Umbridge was already standing beside Professor Grubbly-Plank, still clutching her clipboard. “You do not usually take this class, is that correct?” Draco heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle table where the group of captive bowtruckles were scrabbling around for woodlice once again.

“Quite correct,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I am a substitute teacher standing in for Professor Hagrid.” Behind the two professors, Draco saw Ron and Hermione trade worried looks, and he knew that they were wary of what Umbridge would say or do regarding Hagrid’s absence.

“Hmm,” Professor Umbridge said, lowering her voice, but she remained clearly audible to the nearby students, “I wonder—the headmaster seems strangely reluctant to give me any information on the matter—can you tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid’s very extended leave of absence?”

“’Fraid I can’t,” Professor Grubbly-Plank answered breezily. “Don’t know anything more about it than you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore, would I like a couple of weeks teaching work, accepted—that’s as much as I know. Well...shall I get started then?”

“Yes, please do,” Professor Umbridge said, scribbling on her clipboard. She changed her tack in this class yet again, wandering among the students, questioning them on magical creatures before eventually circling back. “Overall,” Umbridge began, returning to Professor Grubbly-Plank’s side after a lengthy interrogation of Dean Thomas, “How do you, as a temporary member of staff—an objective outsider, I suppose you might say—how do you find Hogwarts? Do you feel you receive enough support from the school management?"

“Oh, yes, Dumbledore’s excellent,” Professor Grubbly-Plank replied at once, quite heartily. “No, I’m very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed.”

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny note on her clipboard and went on, “And what are you planning to cover with this class this year—assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?”

“Oh, I’ll take them through the creatures that most often come up in O.W.L.,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank. “Not much left to do—they’ve studied unicorns and nifflers, I thought we’d cover porlocks and kneazles, make sure they can recognize crups and knarls, you know....”

“Well, _you_ seem to know what you’re doing, at any rate,” said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard. Draco swallowed, watching Ron and Hermione staring daggers at her back. He could almost physically feel himself pale further when Umbridge turned towards the Slytherins, addressing her next question to Goyle of all people. “Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?”

Goyle just gave her a confused grin, seeming unsure of who to answer. It was Crabbe who jumped in, shocking Draco as he hastened to answer the question. “That’s right,” Crabbe said, smirking. “That was Draco, here. He was slashed by a hippogriff two years ago.”

“A hippogriff?” Professor Umbridge repeated, now scribbling frantically. She looked at him expectantly, and Draco felt as if he had swallowed something slimy and distasteful, scrambling for a safe and suitable answer.

From the next table over, Hermione spoke up, her tone clipped. “He hadn’t listened to what Hagrid said during his instructions the minute before,” she remarked loudly. “Hagrid told us how to approach the hippogriffs, and it reacted because it thought Malfoy had insulted it.”

Professor Umbridge turned her head slowly in Hermione’s direction, eyes cold. “Another night’s detention, I think,” she said softly. “For speaking out of turn. Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that’s all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days.”

“Jolly good,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, who hadn’t seemed to notice the tense moment. Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to the castle.

Draco’s eyes shot to Hermione, who seemed to be waiting for that; without returning his gaze, she merely smiled faintly, and he understood at once. She’d seen his predicament, and once more had taken Umbridge’s focus upon herself, so that he neither had to say something that he did not mean--and Draco wouldn’t have, he did not wish to insult Hagrid ever again--or to risk the suspicions of his fellow Slytherins should he fail to offer Umbridge the ammunition she was fishing for.

It wasn’t until after dinner that Draco remembered the note, and he excused himself to the lavatory nearest the Great Hall in order to read it, hiding in one of the stalls. He wasn’t sure why he knew Hermione’s handwriting on sight, but he did. _Prefects’ bathroom--10pm_.

Taking a deep breath, Draco shredded the note and flushed the paper scraps before hurrying back to the dorms to change out of his school robes. He joined the others working on homework, forcing himself to remain seemingly focused until his friends finally surrendered to exhaustion, and went off to bed, leaving him to it.

When the clock showed that it was nearly ten’o’clock, Draco made his way back out of the dungeons, moving up the stair cases as quietly and discreetly as he could manage.

At least he was a Prefect as well, and therefore had the password. Draco stepped inside, raising his eyebrows when he spotted Ron and Hermione sitting in the corner beyond the enormous bath tub--more like a small swimming pool, really--illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Hermione had a small porcelain bowl resting on the window ledge beside her, with her detention-damaged hand resting in the yellow liquid it contained.

“A solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles,” she explained, smiling a little tiredly at Draco. “It should help. Maybe not prevent lasting scarring, but it certainly eases the pain.” Seeing his face cloud over, she waved her other hand airily. “Stop it; come over here so we can talk.”

As Draco moved to join them, she muttered something before pocketing her wand. “There--not exactly a permanent locking charm, but if another Prefect happens to come along, it’ll stall them long enough for us or you to hide in a stall.” Hermione sighed, tipping her head back against the stone wall.

“I was saying that I still think she should complain about this,” Ron told Draco, gesturing towards Hermione’s hand. “McGonagall would go mad if she knew about it--”

“I told you, I can’t,” Hermione said firmly. “If I did, how long do you suppose it would take Umbridge to pass another Decree, saying that anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?” Ron opened his mouth to retort, and she raised her eyebrows, waiting until he finally deflated, nodding in defeat.

“Anyway,” Hermione went on, turning back to Draco. “The reason I wanted us three to talk--I think that we’ve got to do something about Umbridge.”

“Poison’s an excellent option,” Ron muttered darkly, and even Hermione echoed Draco’s soft chuckle at that, before she shook her head.

“No...I mean, we need to do something about what a dreadful teacher she is, and how we’re not going to learn any defense from her at all,” Hermione clarified, though she was smiling at Ron with the kind of fondness that grew from years of close friendship.

“Well, what can we do about that?” Ron asked, struggling to suppress a yawn. “’S too late, isn’t it? She got the job, she’s here to stay, Fudge’ll make sure of that.”

“Well,” Hermione replied tentatively. “You know, I was thinking today....” She glanced at Draco, who nodded encouragingly--what could Hermione Granger think of that wouldn’t have some serious thinking and sense behind it?--so she plunged on. “I was thinking that—maybe the time’s come when we should just—just do it ourselves.”

“Do what ourselves?” Draco asked, wondering where she was going with this.

“Well—learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves,” said Hermione.

“Come off it,” groaned Ron, now rubbing his eyes wearily in order to stay focused. “You want us to do extra work? D’you realize how behind I am on homework _again,_ and it’s only the second week?”

“But this is much more important than homework!” Hermione said, gesturing impatiently before wincing and putting her hand back into the essence of murtlap.

Ron stared at her, traded a startled look with Draco, then looked back at Hermione as if she’d grown a second head. “I didn’t think there was anything in the universe more important in your mind than homework,” Ron finally offered.

“Don’t be silly, of course there is!” Hermione said at once. Draco saw it then, the same blazing look in her eyes that had been there both times she’d gone off in Umbridge’s class. “It’s about preparing ourselves, like I said in that wretched woman’s first lesson, for what’s waiting out there. It’s about making sure we really can defend ourselves--given what we know.” She looked at Draco then, gratitude edging into her expression, and he nodded mutely as Hermione continued. “If we don’t learn anything real, anything _valuable,_ for a whole year—”

“But we can’t do much by ourselves,” Ron pointed out, looking bewildered. “I mean, all right, we can go and look jinxes up in the library and try and practice them, I suppose—”

“No, I agree, we’ve gone past the stage where we can just learn things out of books,” said Hermione. “We need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how to use the spells and correct us if we’re going wrong.”

“Are you talking about Lupin?” Draco asked, equally confused as Ron. The werewolf was the only one in their brief lineup of Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers so far with any credibility or real capability, as far as Draco was aware.

“No, no, I’m not talking about Lupin,” said Hermione. “He’s too busy with the Order, and anyway, the most we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and that’s not nearly often enough.”

“Who, then?” Draco asked, frowning at her. He had to admit, the level that she had thought this through was already impressive, and clearly she had her proposal ready in full--complete with who she was trying to get at suggesting.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she sighed. “I’m talking about you, Draco.”

There was a moment’s silence. A light night breeze rattled a tree branch outside of the bathroom window, making it scrape lightly against the glass and startling awake the mermaid in the stained glass painting on the opposite wall. She eyed them curiously for a moment, then curled back up on her rock and returned to sleep.

“About me...wait, what?” Draco said, looking back and forth between the two of them at a total loss. He had expected Ron to be wearing the usual bemused look that he could be seen aiming at his best friend whenever she said something that was just a bit too out there--but to Draco’s disbelief, Ron did not look exasperated.

He was frowning slightly at Draco, apparently thinking. Then he said, “That’s an idea. You would be a great teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“But...” Draco shook his head, moving to sit on the edge of the enormous bath tub. He couldn’t decide if he thought they were joking, or if they’d just gone mad. “But I’m not a teacher, I can’t—”

“I’m not talking about test results and course curriculums, Draco,” Hermione cut him off, her voice gentle, but her tone and face quite firm. “Look what you’ve done!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked warily, braced for some accusation.

“Not--don’t look so frightened, I’m complimenting you,” Hermione said, almost smiling. She moved the bowl aside, cleaning her hand off with a quick charm before turning on the window ledge to face him properly. She reached out, placing her hand gently on Draco’s arm, and he went still under the touch. The intensity in her gaze held him arrested.

“Dumbledore told us the whole thing, every detail you described to him,” Hermione reminded him in a kind voice. “You...you just spent multiple months in the same house as Lord Voldemort--” Behind her, Ron shuddered, but they both ignored him. “--watching and hearing absolutely unspeakable things. You survived all of that, without him catching on that you didn’t support it, that takes serious skill--”

“Occlumency,” Draco mumbled. “My mother’s been teaching it to me as long as I can remember, she said a strong mind should be well-defended--”

“And you were good enough at it that you endured an entire summer in the same house as Voldemort himself, not only without him knowing you were turning against him, but secure enough that you were able to return to school. He thinks he has the upper hand, and he’s completely ignorant that he sent the most perfect spy possible right back into Dumbledore’s protection!”

“Hermione, I just kept my brain intact long enough to come back, and then just--gave Dumbledore what he needed to know, it’s in his hands now, him and the Order,” Draco protested. “I mean, I’m going to stand by you all, I am, but that doesn’t make me qualified for any kind of leadership--”

“If living in the same bloody house as You-Know-Who, knowing his plans and movements close up, and still getting away from him intact doesn’t qualify you, then I don’t know what in the name of Merlin’s baggy Y-fronts would,” Ron remarked dryly.

Draco shook his head, but it wasn’t so much protest now as just disbelief in their apparent faith in him. “Look--that’s not--neither of you have any idea what it’s really like, being anywhere near him. We can’t just--memorize a bunch of spells and plan to throw them at him as if we’re in class or something. I spent this whole summer thinking--there was nothing between me and dying except for the miraculous chance that he didn’t care enough about my existence to push past the defenses in my mind.”

He swallowed, looking away from their wide eyes and pale faces, feeling nausea welling up. “I spent every day thinking that any second I might be dragged downstairs and murdered, or tortured, or I’d see my parents take my punishment--we never learn that kind of thing in classes, how to deal with that. Knowing that this, this man--this _monster_ \--killed my classmates, killed an innocent _fourteen-_ year-old, and Diggory, who was just in the wrong place--”

Draco was choking on his own breath, unable to keep getting the words out in the correct order.

“We weren’t saying anything like that, mate,” said Ron, looking horrified. “We weren’t trying to make light of what you went through—”

He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken. Draco hadn’t even realized that he’d pulled away from her hand on his arm, but now she put it back, and the warmth once again grounded him. “Draco,” she said timidly, “Don’t you see? This...everything that you just said, that’s exactly why we need you....we need to know what it’s r-really like...facing him...facing Voldemort.”

It occurred to Draco then that each time he had heard her say the Dark Lord’s name, her voice had become increasingly more confident. Even Ron did not so much as flinch this time, as they both gazed back at him intently.

“Well...think about it,” Hermione added at last, quietly. “Please?”

Draco swallowed hard, torn between the raw confusion and terror that had driven his words a moment before--and somehow wanting to just seize the same bravado that Hermione was exhibiting, and running with it. He nodded at last. “Alright.”

* * *

It took some careful navigation to communicate back and forth, but roughly two weeks after their late-night rendezvous in the Prefects’ bathroom, Hermione managed to convey to Draco that they would meet him in Hogsmeade. He didn’t recognize the name of the pub her note indicated, but still he carefully arranged to let his Housemates believe that he headed back to the castle after having lunch with them in the snowy little village.

Instead, Draco made his way to the Hog’s Head, getting a butterbeer and finding a seat in the corner, behind the stairwell. Ron and Hermione arrived soon after, and to his surprise they joined him outright. Before he could speak, Hermione explained. “As far as I know, Hogwarts students never come here, always the Three Broomsticks--so I don’t think we’ll be overheard. I told the others to meet us here.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me, ‘others?’”

Hermione blushed slightly. If he hadn’t been hung up on his abrupt new concern about who these _others_ were going to be, Draco might have taken a moment to notice that her eyes seemed to stand out even more prettily when her cheeks were flushed like that. “I...well, I really think--if you agreed to this--that you ought to teach anyone who wants to learn. I mean, we’re talking about defending ourselves against Voldemort himself--it doesn’t seem fair if we don’t offer the chance to other people.”

Draco considered that for a moment, unable to find more to object to than one significant point. “Alright, but no one who you’d invite to a meeting of this nature is going to be willing to learn from me, of all people. They’ll just assume I’m--I don’t know, spying for Umbridge, or even for _him._ ” Draco’s mouth twisted a little. “It’s not as if Potter was wrong in always drawing attention to the fact that my father _is_ an active Death Eater.”

“Well, I think you might be surprised how many people would be interested in hearing what you’ve got to say,” Hermione replied solemnly, seemingly unfazed by the reminder that Draco’s own parents were among their enemies. “After all, Luna saw that you’d changed. And Ginny trusts her word, and ours.”

Before Draco could reply to that--so they had contributed to Ginny’s new attitude towards him, which meant that they talked about trusting him amongst themselves--the door to the Hog’s Head opened again, and Draco jumped slightly as a literal small crowd of students suddenly poured in, making a beeline for Hermione when they saw her.

He wasn’t sure who registered his presence first, but it caused a general synchronized movement of pulling up short, and several people gasped or muttered mutinously. But then Luna stepped through, pushing past some of those gaping, and crossed to sit promptly at Draco’s other side. She looked back at her peers, blinking. “Aren’t we all going to sit down? We ought to be comfortable, this is going to be a very serious discussion.”

With an almost-smile, Ginny was the next to break from the group, moving to sit at Ron’s side and returning her brother’s proud smile. The twins followed, giving Draco a cursory look before shrugging in unison, and gradually everyone edged forward, pulling chairs up until there was a large, uneven circle around the table that Ron, Hermione, and Draco had claimed.

There was a long, awkward pause, far too long, during which Draco couldn’t bring himself to look further than Luna or Ginny to see who was present. Fred broke the stillness at length, calling out to the bartender for butterbeers all around and then navigating collecting the payment from the group. Once they were settled with beverages, Hermione seemed to decide that another silence was no good, and rose.

“Um...hi.” She looked around, seeming both daunted and encouraged by the faces she saw staring back at her. “So, you all know why we’re here...I thought that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts-- _really_ study it, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing--”

“Hear, hear,” someone muttered from amidst those gathered, and Hermione clearly took courage from that. She continued, her voice stronger. “Well, we need a teacher. A proper teacher, one who’s had experience defending themselves against the Dark Arts. And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells. We _need_ to be properly trained in Defense because...because...” She paused, clearly knowing what would come next, and finished, “Because Lord Voldemort’s back."

The reaction was immediate and predictable; one girl shrieked and slopped butterbeer down herself, a Ravenclaw boy gave a kind of involuntary twitch, Padma Patil shuddered, and Neville gave an odd yelp that he managed to turn into a cough. But no one moved to leave, which Draco had honestly half-expected.

“Well...that’s the plan anyway,” said Hermione. “If you want to join us, then we need to decide how we’re going to—”

“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?” asked a blonde Hufflepuff boy in a rather aggressive voice. Draco recognized him as being on the Quidditch team for his House, though he had no memory of the name.

“Well, Dumbledore believes it—” Hermione began.

“And how do you know that Dumbledore thinks that?” the blonde boy pushed back at once. “I know Potter was supposedly the Chosen One, and Dumbledore’s favorite and all that, but just because you were his best friends--”

“And who are you?” Ron cut him off, tone sharp.

“Zacharias Smith,” the boy returned, “and I think we’ve got a right to know exactly what makes you suddenly say that You-Know-Who’s back.”

“Look,” said Hermione, intervening swiftly, “that’s really not what this meeting was supposed to be about—”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Draco said, the first time he’d spoken since the others arrived. Immediately they all went very still again, staring at him with a variety of expressions. Some looked awed, perhaps to see him sitting with Hermione, speaking to her, visibly friendly. Others were clearly wary, though what they thought he might accomplish by being here with ulterior motives was beyond Draco. Still, he knew very clearly that whether Hermione had thought it through or not, they weren’t going to achieve any recruitment for what she hoped to do without him owning his testimony before more than just the few Gryffindors he was already struggling to trust.

Hermione wasn’t wrong about them needing to know better how to defend themselves, and unfortunately, that was going to take vulnerability on multiple levels, for all of them.

“What makes me say You-Know-Who’s back?” he went on, looking Zacharias Smith right in the eyes. “I saw him. Last year, when the Third Task went wrong--when Diggory and Potter never came back--I went back home, same as all of you, unsure of what it meant or what was going to happen, and Voldemort was in my house.”

There was, as he’d expected, an aborted gasp throughout the group. Some of them traded looks, and he knew what had crossed their minds. “I’m not my father,” Draco said, the words firm and clear. He could almost feel Hermione behind him, practically vibrating with what could only be called pride. “He’s a Death Eater, yes. And he opened the house I grew up in to Vo--oh for God’s sake.”

He rolled his eyes at the preemptive shudders, adjusting. “The Dark Lord turned what used to be my home into hell on earth. I heard people being tortured, I saw defectors murdered in my bloody garden. I listened to him _brag_ about how he murdered Harry Potter-- _and_ Diggory.” Draco saw, in his peripheral vision, that Cho Chang had begun to cry silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. He wondered if she had accepted before this moment that her boyfriend was dead.

“He killed Diggory because he just happened to somehow get there too, he didn’t matter at all.” Draco looked back at Smith, who no longer appeared as cocky. “And he tortured and killed Harry Potter. And now he’s back, and plotting, and the best chance that we have is to do some preparing of our own. I think Hermione’s a bit mad to suggest _I_ do the teaching, but I can’t deny that this is needed.”

There was another long pause, but this time it was less awkward, and more speculative. Everyone was still staring at Draco; this time, though, he could not help noticing that there was only curiosity and concern, no more suspicion. He’d expected his mentioning that Hermione wanted him to teach them would drive some of them away, but it did not appear to be so.

Hermione stood back up, her voice now far more confident. “So,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “So, like I was saying...if you want to learn some defense, then we need to work out how we’re going to do it, how often we’re going to meet, and where we’re going to—well, let me slow down. Are we agreed we want to take lessons from Draco?”

There was a murmur of general agreement. Smith folded his arms and said nothing, but he was no longer frowning openly.

“Right,” Hermione went on, looking relieved that something had at last been settled. “Well, then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don’t think there’s any point in meeting less than once a week—”

“Hang on,” Angelina Johnson cut in, and Draco knew already where this interruption was heading, “we need to make sure this doesn’t clash with our Quidditch practice.”

“No,” said Cho, “nor with ours.”

“Nor ours,” added Zacharias Smith.

“I’m sure we can find a night that suits everyone,” said Hermione, slightly impatiently, “but you know, this is rather important, we’re talking about learning to defend ourselves against Voldemort and his Death Eaters—”

“Well said!” barked Ernie Macmillan, and Draco started to see that he was there; considering his previous vocal support for hHermione, Draco would have thought he’d have spoken up sooner. “Personally I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we’ll do this year, even with our O.W.L.s coming up!” He looked around impressively, as though waiting for people to cry, “Surely not!” When nobody spoke, he went on, “I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us at this critical period. Obviously they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells—”

“Actually,” Hermione cut him off, looking once more a little fiere. “I think the reason Umbridge doesn’t want us trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts...is that she’s got some, some mad idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a kind of private army. I think she fears that he’d mobilize us against the Ministry.”

Nearly everybody looked stunned at this news, though Draco had to admit, he knew at once that she must be right. “So,” Hermione went on, “We need to decide how often we’re going to meet and do these Defense lessons. Once a week seems reasonable, with some flexibility...so the other thing to decide is where we’re going to meet. . . .”

This was rather more difficult; the whole group fell silent. “Library?” suggested Katie Bell after a few moments.

“I can’t see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us doing jinxes in the library,” Ron pointed out, to general nods.

“Right, well, we’ll try to find somewhere,” Hermione said shrugging. “We’ll send a message round to everybody when we’ve got a time and a place for the first meeting.” She rummaged in her bag and produced parchment and a quill, then hesitated, rather as though she was steeling herself to say something. “Now, I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here. But I also think,” she took a deep breath, “that we all ought to agree not to shout about what we’re doing. So if you sign, you’re agreeing not to tell Umbridge—or anybody else—what we’re up to.”

Fred reached out for the parchment and cheerfully put down his signature; but Draco noticed at once that several people looked less than happy at the prospect of putting their names on the list.

“Well...” said Zacharias Smith slowly, not taking the parchment that George was trying to pass him. “Ah...I’m sure Ernie will tell me when the meeting is.”

But Ernie was looking rather hesitant about signing, too. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him, and he sighed rather dramatically. “I--well, we are prefects,” he said uneasily. “And if this list was found...well, I mean to say...you said yourself, if Umbridge finds out...”

“You just said this group was the most important thing you’d do this year,” Hermione reminded him, her tone a hint testy. “More importantly, Ernie, do you really think I’d leave that list lying around?”

“No. No, of course not,” Ernie replied at once, looking substantially less anxious. “I—yes, of course I’ll sign.”

Nobody raised objections after that, though Draco spotted a Ravenclaw girl who appeared to be there with Cho Chang giving Cho a rather reproachful look before adding her name. When the last person—Smith, naturally—had signed, Hermione took the parchment back and slipped it carefully into her bag.

There was an odd feeling in the group now. It was as though they had just signed some kind of contract. “Well, time’s ticking on,” said Fred briskly, getting to his feet. “George, Lee, and I have got items of a sensitive nature to purchase, we’ll be seeing you all later.”

In twos and threes, the rest of the group took their leave too. “Well, I think that went quite well,” said Hermione happily, as she, Draco, and Ron prepared to leave the Hog’s Head last of all. “I’ll get to brainstorming about safe locations for lessons. Oh, this is going to be _good_.” She beamed at Draco, who couldn’t help returning the expression as he left a tip for the bartender, after the size of the group they’d surprised him with in the empty little pub. “Thank you. For agreeing.”

Meeting her eyes, Draco paused, then smiled faintly. “I still think it’s utterly mad. But it is important, you’re right.”

They parted ways before reaching the main street, and Hermione headed deeper into the village with a remark about needing a new quill, Ron in tow. Draco started back to the castle, keeping a sharp eye out so that he could avoid being seen by any of the friends who had believed him to be back at Hogwarts ages ago.

The knowledge that they were doing something to resist Umbridge and the Ministry, and that he was a key part of this blossoming rebellion, was filling Draco’s whole body with a feeling of immense satisfaction. He went back over the meeting in his mind as he walked--all those people agreeing that they needed to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts...their acceptance of his story about all that he’d endured, and that it was enough to make him change his path moving forward....the fierce and proud look in Hermione’s face when he had stepped up to help her state their case...

Draco smiled, returning to school with a new and overwhelming sense of anticipation.


	5. Take Me to the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'It’s as if Hogwarts wants us to fight back.'”
> 
> Chapter title from "Tell Me Why" by Three Days Grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies! Getting home from my California trip left me feeling like I boxed Dwane "the Rock" Johnson lol. And I think from here on, we'll go with Friday posting--seems like a nice start to the weekend. :D

There wasn’t much opportunity to communicate in the following days, but eventually Hermione managed to call for another conversation in the Prefects’ bathroom. Draco made his way there late on a Friday evening, finding her and Ron sitting where they had been before by the window. This time, however, Hermione was surrounded by open books.

“I’ve been struggling to find a solution for our practice location problem,” she began without preamble. “I started in a fairly generic manner, looking at anything and everything ever written about Hogwarts--I’m not sure what I’m looking for, really, though I guess I was sort of getting flashbacks to how I went hunting for documentation about the Chamber of Secrets, three years ago.”

Hermione sighed, frustrated as she closed the book she was holding. “I suppose it’s a bit much to ask for _Hogwarts: A History_ to list abandoned spaces in the castle where an evil teacher can’t catch us working on proper self-defense.”

“Might be a bit,” Draco agreed, smiling dryly. “But we’re going to work it out. We just need to think through it, methodically and logically.”

“Merlin’s balls, you two are too similar,” Ron snorted, giving them an arch look over the book that he was holding. Hermione shot him a dark look, and he grinned. “Unless your name is Molly Weasley, I’m not going to apologize for my language. Does this mean I can stop trying to read this?” He set the book aside without waiting for Hermione’s response. “We’ve got something a little more immediate to discuss, anyway.”

“True,” she allowed, and grimaced when Draco raised his eyebrows in question. “Well, we were talking with Ginny and some of the others who came to the meeting, trying to brainstorm this whole location problem. And then one comment or another made Ron and me start thinking...”

She paused, pushing her hair out of her face, and then looked at Ron for help. He stepped in for her, shrugging as if to lighten the words that followed. “We want you there, of course, and we did sort of elect you the leader,” he said. “But we also have to toe the line as far as your safety. What we mean is--”

“Sometimes there’ll be meetings I can’t attend,” Draco interrupted, nodding at once. “I know. I’ve been dwelling on it, too. I mean, we’re going to have a constantly changing schedule as is, due to House quidditch practices and avoiding detection and a dozen other factors, but there are going to be nights that work too well to skip, and if it’s too risky for me to attend, then that’s that.” His smile twisted, edged with a hint of bitterness. “I’ve got to remain credible as an unsullied son of a Death Eater, after all.”

“That won’t last forever,” Hermione said firmly. “One day, we’ll be able to stop the spying and double-agent business, and you’ll be free and safe. And we’ll do everything we can to minimize the number of times that we have to schedule a meeting without you--it isn’t as if we can have many lessons without the primary instructor, after all,” she added, smiling a little in amusement.

“I think you’re putting far too much faith in my ability to teach, but I appreciate the endorsement,” Draco said, chuckling. “I don’t suppose you’ve started lesson-planning for me, Granger?”

She blushed at once, whether at the question or his affectionate tone when he used her surname, and both Ron and Draco laughed. “Very minimally,” Hermione admitted, grinning despite her pink cheeks. “Most just compiling lists of the sorts of spells that I think will be important to cover. There’s so much, I’m not even sure of where we should begin.”

“Honestly, with the basics,” Draco said, leaning forward as he focused on the vague, loosely-formed ideas he’d begun to form for this. He couldn’t help it; once he had agreed with Hermione’s mad plan, Draco had found himself getting almost excited for the whole thing, and starting to plan. “We’ve now four years of vastly different types of lessons in the subject, and not everyone is on the same level, skill-wise. At least for the first meeting, I want to go over the sorts of things that we ‘should’ all be proficient in by fifth year--like Disarming, maybe Stunning, and I imagine Summoning will be useful, like if you disarm someone and their wand doesn’t come to your hand.”

Hermione’s eyes were bright, her expression somewhere between the ferocity of rebelling against Umbridge, and pride as she listened to him. “I think that’s perfect,” she said firmly, digging in her bag and pulling out a small notebook. She handed it to him, and Draco opened it to find some very basic lesson plans. “I think that’s best kept in your hands,” Hermione went on, smiling warmly. “You’re going to be brilliant at this.”

* * *

The following morning, he entered the common room to see that a large sign had been affixed to the Slytherin notice board, so large that it covered everything else on there--lists of second-hand spellbooks for sale, the regular reminders of school rules from Argus Filch, the Quidditch team training schedule, the offers to barter certain Chocolate Frog cards for others, the Weasleys’ new advertise-ment for testers, the dates of the Hogsmeade weekends, and the lost-and-found notices. The new sign was printed in large black letters and there was a highly official-looking seal at the bottom beside a neat and curly signature.

_By Order of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor:_

_All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded. An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students. Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge). No Student Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor._

_Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled. The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-four._

_Signed,_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor_

“Does this mean they’re going to shut down the Gobstones Club?” one of them asked his friend.

“I think you’ll be okay with Gobstones,” Draco said in a light tone, making the second year jump. He doubted that their little rebel alliance was going to be as lucky, though. He read the notice through again. The happiness that had filled him ever since the meeting in the Hog’s Head was gone. Now, his insides were pulsing with rage.

It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence--but how could Umbridge possibly know? Draco didn’t remember anyone being in the pub aside from their group, but perhaps he hadn’t been watching closely enough...or maybe one of the members had already gotten spooked, and turned on them.

He needed to talk to Hermione.

When he approached the Great Hall, he spotted Hermione and Ron hovering near the corridor where they’d run into each other after Quidditch tryouts, and where Draco suddenly remembered the tapestry-concealed passageway that Hermione had taken him to. As soon as she spotted him, he nodded, and Hermione grabbed Ron’s arm and headed down the corridor.

Draco waited a moment, crouching to re-tie his shoelace, then made his way after them.

As soon as he had ducked behind the tapestry, Hermione muttered two incantations that he didn’t recognize. “Silencing charm, and a sort of temporary wall,” she explained, putting her wand away. “So no one can burst in here on us, though I don’t think many people even know this is here.”

“How did you know about it?” he asked curiously, relieved that they didn’t need to whisper.

Hermione hesitated, but Ron answered promptly. “We can explain more later, but in third year Harry--” For once, there was no stutter as he uttered his late best friend’s name. “--was given this Map, it was incredible; it showed all of Hogwarts, with little markers indicating where people are in live time. No idea where it is now, but it showed us all the hidden ways in and out of Hogwarts."

“I’ll need to ask Lupin about that,” Hermione noted, looking as if she’d had an epiphany. “Professor Dumbledore handled Harry’s possessions at the end of last year, perhaps he returned it to them...Lupin and Sirius,” she added, at Ron’s quizzical look. “It would only make sense, giving it back to them since it was theirs to begin with. But Ron’s right, we’ll explain that later--”

“You said it showed you hidden parts of Hogwarts,” Draco cut her off, eyebrows rising. “Do you remember anywhere that’d be good for our lessons?”

There was a pause, and then Hermione smiled, so wide and genuine and warmly that for a moment Draco felt as if he actually caught his breath at how much softer the expression made her already pretty face. “So you weren’t scared off by Umbridge’s flyer?” she asked, looking thrilled. “You’re--we’re going to keep going?”

“Of course.” Draco rolled his eyes. “We started it to directly resist that old toad, we aren’t going to stop it just because she’s scrambling for more control. In fact, it’s all the more reason _to_ do it.”

She nodded, clearly pleased. “Excellent. And--well, I can’t remember any spaces on the Map that would be adequate, but I will write to Lupin and ask about it...or perhaps just invite him to meet us in Hogsmeade, it’s too dangerous to mention things like the Map in a letter.” She frowned for a moment, then pressed on. “Anyway, I guess that settles what we needed to discuss. I don’t know how she suspects, but we aren’t going to let it change anything.”

“Still, it’s worrisome that she did this right after we got the whole thing started,” Ron pointed out, frowning. “Someone must have blabbed to her.”

“They can’t have done,” Hermione said at once.

“You’re too trusting,” Ron told her, sighing, “you think just because you’re all honorable and trustworthy—”

“No, they can’t have done because I put a jinx on that piece of parchment we all signed,” Hermione countered, her tone grimly satisfied. “Believe me, if anyone’s run off and told Umbridge, we’ll know exactly who they are and they will really regret it.”

“What’ll happen to them?” Ron asked, looking impressed and mildly afraid of his best friend’s cleverness. Draco couldn’t help thinking that that was probably a constant feeling for the redhead.

“Well, put it this way,” Hermione said with deceptive levity, “it’ll make Eloise Midgen’s acne look like a couple of cute freckles. I wondered when we first saw it if it had just been in Gryffindor--clearly not,” she went on, nodding at Draco. “So I suppose we’ll need to calm the others down. I’ll see about contacting Lupin, and...well, we’ll try and get the next meeting set as quickly as we can. We need to get this thing moving.”

Drawing her wand again, Hermione undid the charms, peeking out to make sure the coast was clear before she and Ron left first. Draco waited to the count of one hundred, then followed, entering the Great Hall and joining Pansy and Blaise at the Slytherin table.

From there, he watched as several Gryffindor members from their meeting made their way to Ron and Hermione, seeking reassurance; the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were also edging over, and Hermione frantically waved them away. Draco winced, glancing toward the head table; thankfully, Umbridge did not seem to notice the hubbub surrounding Ron and Hermione.

Theo dropped onto the bench beside them, looking mutinous. “Bloody cow,” he grumbled, throwing a stink-eye up towards Umbridge. “She’s included the Quidditch teams in her stupid little ban. The captains have to ask permission to re-form the sodding teams, and she’s already implied she might not grant it.” He scowled, stabbing his fork into his eggs. “I bet you Johson’s going to explode, the old toad’s rather anti-Gryffindor after all the grief that Granger keeps giving her.”

Draco glanced at his friend curiously. “What do you think of all that? Granger’s talk in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I mean.”

Theo shrugged, spooning his eggs on top of a piece of toast. “I think it’s about the most Granger thing she can do, especially given that Potter’s gone.” He hesitated, setting down the toast, his expression twisting a bit. “Look, I’ve not mentioned it because I’m worried that it means she’s right, but...my dad’s missing. And the only thing I can think of that would make sense is that...well, he is back. The Dark Lord, I mean. And the way Granger’s been talking, I can’t help thinking that she’s got to have some compelling reason to think he’s somehow responsible for Potter and Diggory disappearing.”

Draco’s stomach had slipped down well past his toes, had practically fallen out of his body. He’d almost managed to forget that he was spending every single day hiding the terrible truth from his friend--that Theo had no idea his father was dead, murdered at Malfoy Manor by Lord Voldemort for choosing not to answer the summons of the Dark Mark.

“Theo,” Pansy murmured, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’ll come back, we’ve heard nothing to suggest...”

Theo sighed, resuming his breakfast. “Point is...I don’t know, I’m a bit concerned that Granger’s got a point.”

Draco glanced over at the Gryffindor table, watching Ron and Hermione speaking quietly with Ginny and the twins. “I think she does,” he agreed softly, making both of his friends look at him with mild surprise. He didn’t elaborate--if he did, Draco knew he’d crack, and admit absolutely everything--and they did not press him for more.

But he could see the thoughtful looks on both of their faces, and Draco knew he was treading into dangerous territory. He would not be able to conceal things from his friends if he continued as he was.

History of Magic was uneventful, but things picked up again when the Slytherins and Gryffindors entered Snape’s classroom for Potions. “You will notice,” Snape began in a low voice, seemingly working hard to keep his tone level, “that we have a guest with us today.” He gestured toward the dim corner of the dungeon, and Draco blinked when he saw Professor Umbridge sitting there, her infernal clipboard on her knee. He glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione, his eyebrows raised.

This was going to be...interesting, to say the least.

“We are continuing with our Strengthening Solutions today, you will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson, if correctly made they should have matured well over the weekend—instructions—” Snape waved his wand again— “...are on the board. Carry on.”

Professor Umbridge spent the first half hour of the lesson making notes in her corner. Draco was very curious about how it would go once she began to question Snape, and whether his godfather would handle her unwelcome presence with the same sarcastic calm that McGonagall had, or if he would lose his temper towards the Ministry hag.

Eventually, Umbridge rose to her feet and strode between two lines of desks toward Snape, who was bending over Dean Thomas’s cauldron. “Well, the class seems fairly advanced for their level,” she said briskly to Snape’s back. “Though I would question whether it is advisable to teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus.”

Snape straightened up slowly and turned to look at her. “Now...how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?” Umbridge continued, her quill poised over her clipboard.

“Fourteen years,” Snape replied. His expression was unfathomable, his tone flat and emotionless.

“You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?” Professor Umbridge continued, seemingly oblivious to the class’ general interest in the exchange.

“Yes,” Snape said quietly. Draco frowned, wondering if he had ever known that about his godfather. But given their track record, he had to admit, he was glad that Snape had never gotten that position--all of the Defense professors wound up dead or leaving, and he wouldn’t have wanted to see Snape leave Hogwarts.

“But you were unsuccessful?”

Snape’s lip curled. “Obviously.”

Professor Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard. “And you have applied regularly for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe?”

“Yes,” Snape confirmed again, barely moving his lips. Draco recognized the look in his eyes, deep anger that was not showing itself in his features. He knew his godfather was a talented Occlumens, but Draco was still rather impressed at the careful control that the older wizard seemed to have his expressions.

“Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?” Umbridge asked, unaware or unconcerned by Snape’s rising irritation.

“I suggest that you ask him,” Snape replied, his tone shorter and shorter.

“Oh I shall,” Professor Umbridge returned with a sweet smile.

“I suppose this is relevant?” Snape asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh yes,” said Professor Umbridge. “Yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teachers’—er—backgrounds....” She turned away from him then, walking over to Pansy and beginning to question her about their Potions lessons; Pansy did not look pleased by this turn of events, though she gave clipped replies indicating their general liking for Snape and his classes.

Seemingly satisfied by Pansy’s thoughts, Umbridge started to turn away, then paused when she saw Draco watching them. She stepped closer, giving him a smile that suggested she assumed he would be pleased to talk with her.

“I’d recognize those eyes and that hair anywhere,” she said sweetly, focusing on him instead of her clipboard. “You must be Lucius Malfoy’s boy, is that right?”

The desire to say something rude was extremely strong, but Draco bit his tongue. He could almost hear Dumbledore and Hermione both in his mind. The Headmaster would muse that perhaps this was exactly the sort of role that Draco’s place in the grand scheme of things had prepared him for. Hermione would likely be fretting, but agree with the Professor.

So Draco pasted on a smile, giving Umbridge the most pleasant, innocent look he could muster. “Yes, I am, I’m Draco. Do you know my father, then, Professor?”

“I certainly do, he’s delightful,” she said, beaming. “I used to see him every time he popped in and out at the Ministry to see Cornelius--that is, the Minister,” she said, correcting her familiarity with a bone-grating little giggle. “Do be sure to give him my regards if you write home soon, dear. I recall he’s often spoken quite highly of his son, I look forward to getting to know you better."

Draco thought he’d rather be bedridden with Dragon pox. “I’d like that, Professor. Can I help you any further with your assessment? Professor Snape’s quite an excellent teacher. Potions is one of my favorite classes.”

She gave another irritating little laugh. “No, thank you, dear, I think I’ve gathered what I needed. Professor Snape does seem to be quite competent, and with a little Ministry-approved adjustment to the syllabus, I’m sure his classes will be one of the few that I don’t need to do any editorial work on.”

They did not encounter any more class assessments for the rest of the day, through Defense Against the Dark Arts was mind-numbing as usual. They sat in silence and read, while Hermione kept her book closed and simply stared at Umbridge, who very pointedly did not look at her in return.

The homework continued to pile as high as a mountain, and Draco found himself forced to remain awake late into the night, half-dozing at the common room table by the fire as he struggled to make some headway on it all. Dozing off was definitely winning over the homework progress.

“Draco Malfoy, sir!”

Draco woke with a start. The candles had all been extinguished in the common room, but there was something moving close by. “Who’s there?” he asked sleepily, sitting upright in his chair. The fire had almost gone out, leaving the room very dark aside from the rather haunting yellow-green light filtering down through the Black Lake beyond the windows.

“Dobby has come to visit you, sir!” said a squeaky voice.

“Dobby?” Draco repeatedly with confusion, peering through the gloom toward the source of the voice. Sure enough, Dobby the house-elf was standing beside the table where Draco’s homework was laid out. His large, pointed ears were now sticking out from beneath what looked like over a dozen small, knitted hats; Dobby was wearing one on top of the other, so that his head seemed elongated by two or three feet.

“Professor Dumbledore asked Dobby to come and see Draco Malfoy, sir!” said the elf squeakily, looking both very happy, and rather nervous to see the son of his former owner. “He is telling Dobby to make sure and wait until no one else is around, so Dobby waited, and now Draco Malfoy is alone, sir, so Dobby has come to see him!” He sank into a deep bow so that his pencil-like nose brushed the threadbare surface of the hearthrug.

“Well--hi, Dobby,” Draco managed, sitting up completely and smiling despite himself. “It’s been so long--I’m so glad to see you.” Looking Dobby over, he noticed that the elf was also wearing several scarves and innumerable socks, so that his feet looked far too big for his body. “I see you’ve got yourself plenty of new clothes. Do you wear everything you own every single day?”

“Oh no, sir,” said Dobby happily, “Dobby has been giving some to Winky too, sir.”

“Winky?” Draco asked, confused. He recognized the name, but couldn’t think of how. “Oh--wait, isn’t that--wasn’t she Bartemius Crouch’s elf? Why does she need clothes now?”

“Winky is at Hogwarts now, sir,” Dobby said, his ears drooping slightly. “She is getting fired for not doing what Master Crouch is asking, many months ago. She is living here now, but Winky is not happy. She is drinking lots, sir,” he said sadly, his enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls, downcast. “She still does not care for clothes, Draco Malfoy. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower anymore, not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always likes helping the Gryffindors. They were Harry Potter’s friends, and Dobby is liking them all very much.”

Draco smiled bemusedly. He had no idea what Dobby was talking about regarding finding the clothing in Gryffindor Tower, but just seeing Dobby again had him feeling intensely fond and nostalgic. It had been years since he had seen or heard of the house-elf. Lucius had come home, at the end of his second year, and just said curtly that Dobby was not coming back. Draco had half-assumed his father had lost his temper and killed the poor little creature. Knowing that he was here at Hogwarts, and happy, made Draco feel infinitely better.

“You said Dumbledore asked you to find me?” he asked, more awake now. “Why, did he need to send a message?”

“Yes, sir,” Dobby said at once, nodding so hard his ears flapped. “Professor Dumbledore is giving Dobby a message, and saying it is most urgent, but must only be heard by Draco Malfoy. He is saying that Draco Malfoy may need help finding something, and that Dobby is having the answer he needs.”

Draco frowned, bewildered. The only possible conclusion was that Dumbledore knew what they were up to--or at least, that they were up to anything at all--and somehow believed that Dobby was the safest means of communicating this information to them. “Dobby,” he said slowly, unsure if he was interpreting this correctly. “Do you know of any place where twenty-eight people could practice Defense Against the Dark Arts without being discovered by any of the teachers? Especially Professor Umbridge.”

He half-expected the elf ’s smile to vanish, his ears to droop; Draco expected him to say that this was impossible, or else that he would try, but his hopes were not high....what he had not expected was for Dobby to give a little skip, his ears waggling happily, and clap his hands together. “Dobby knows the perfect place, sir!” he said happily. “Dobby heard tell of it from the other house-elves when he came to Hogwarts, sir. It is known by us as the Come and Go Room, sir, or else as the Room of Requirement!”

“Why’s it called that?” Draco asked curiously.

“Because it is a room that a person can only enter,” Dobby explained solemnly, “when they have real need of it. Sometimes it is there, and sometimes it is not, but when it appears, it is always equipped for the seeker’s needs. Dobby has used it, sir,” said the elf, dropping his voice and looking guilty, “when Winky has been very drunk. He has hidden her in the Room of Requirement and he has found antidotes to butterbeer there, and a nice elf-sized bed to settle her on while she sleeps it off, sir....and Dobby knows Mr. Filch has found extra cleaning materials there when he has run short, sir, and—”

“—and if you really needed a bathroom,” Draco cut in, suddenly remembering something that Dumbledore had said seemingly jokingly, the previous Christmas, “would it fill itself with chamber pots?”

“Dobby expects so, sir,” Dobby affirmed, nodding earnestly. “It is a most amazing room, sir.”

“How many people know about it?” Draco asked, sitting forward in his chair. For the first time since the meeting in Hogsmeade, he felt his excitement rising back to fever pitch again.

“Very few, sir. Mostly people stumbles across it when they needs it, sir, but often they never finds it again, for they do not know that it is always there waiting to be called into service, sir.”

“It sounds brilliant,” Draco assured the elf, his heart racing. “It sounds absolutely perfect, Dobby. When can you show me where it is?”

“Anytime, Draco Malfoy, sir,” said Dobby, looking delighted at his former master’s enthusiasm. “We could go now, if you like!”

For a moment, Draco really was tempted to go now; he was halfway out of his seat, ready to follow, but then a voice that sounded very much like Hermione’s whispered in his ear, stopping his feet: _reckless_ . It was, after all, very late, he was exhausted and had Snape’s essay to finish.

“Not tonight, Dobby,” Draco finally said reluctantly, sinking back into his chair. “This is really important....I don’t want to blow it, it’ll need proper planning....Listen, can you just tell me exactly where this Room of Requirement is and how to get in there?”

* * *

This time it was Draco who initiated a late-night meeting in the Prefects’ bathroom, and he was there first, looking up and smiling when Ron and Hermione joined him and locked the door. “You look happy, which is promising,” Hermione remarked, coming to perch on the window sill beside him.

“I am happy,” Draco said promptly. “Because I know where we’re going to have lessons. My father’s old house-elf Dobby turned up in the common room late the other night; apparently, somehow, Dumbledore knows we’re working on something, because he told Dobby to come and help me if he could. Also, any idea why Dobby is singlehandedly cleaning Gryffindor Tower now? He said that the others refuse to go in there because of hidden clothing--he was wearing about twenty articles of knitted-wear, himself.”

Hermione looked thunderstruck, and Ron barked out a laugh. “Yeah, Hermione, why would that be happening?” he asked, smirking at her as she flushed. “It’s her fault,” he explained to Draco. “Guess they don’t appreciate _spew_ after all.”

“It's not ‘spew,’ Ron, it's S.P.E.W., and I'm only trying to set them free!” Hermione retorted. “Dobby needs to talk them into accepting it!”

“I recommend you stop,” Draco told her frankly, and he held up a hand when she opened her mouth in outrage. “No, listen, you’re upsetting them. He said they stopped cleaning in Gryffindor because they’re insulted. Come on, Hermione, you know Dumbledore’s going to treat Hogwarts’ elves well. Leave them in peace.”

“Anyway, so Dobby had an idea?” Ron asked, cutting off Hermione’s next attempt to argue.

“Yes,” Draco said, grinning, and explained to them about the Room of Requirement.

“If it’s real, it sounds perfect,” Hermione said at once, eyes wide. “Oh, this is good timing--I wrote to Lupin and asked him if he had any of Harry’s old effects, and he understood me at once--he sent me a box of parchment and quills and other stationary and he’d hidden the Map in it all perfectly.”

She drew out a folded sheet of parchment, placing it where all three could see it clearly and then tapping it with a murmured, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Draco watched, shocked, as the lines appeared and began unfurling themselves to reveal the entirety of Hogwarts, and its occupants moving about in real time. Across the top of the map, elegantly scripted letters began to appear as well. _Mssrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are Proud to Present the Marauders' Map_.

“This is amazing,” Draco breathed, staring at the map with open awe. “The level of detail, the kind of magic that must have been involved in making this… How on earth did Potter get his hands on it?”

“Fred and George, if you can believe it,” Ron said, smirking. “They nicked it from Filch in their first year, used it to get all around the castle and Hogsmeade using some of the secret passageways that the Map shows. Then they gave it to Harry a couple of years ago, when he wasn’t allowed into Hogsmeade. That’s how he snuck in the few times, with his Invisibility Cloak.”

Draco had a very sudden flashback, of getting pelted with snowballs from an unseen force, with Crabbe and Goyle trying and failing to defend themselves, and of turning around at the right moment to see what he had thought was Harry’s head floating in midair. He had been so certain that Harry had been there, and enraged when Harry seemed to somehow escape punishment, despite Draco running straight for Snape to report what he saw. And Snape had been equally frustrated when he couldn’t really pin a detention on Harry for breaking the rules, again.

“Well,” Draco said. “I guess that explains a lot.”

Hermione hid a smile. “Yes, I suppose there are some things that we could clear up for you, retroactively...anyway.” She unfolded the map carefully, finding the corridor that Dobby had identified to Draco on the parchment. “It looks like no one’s anywhere near there--should we go right now?” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s nearly nine now, that’s our curfew for fifth year...”

Draco scanned the map, checking the likelihood of them being undisturbed if they set out right then. He shrugged at Hermione’s fretting. “Seems to be the best timing, and passing curfew will mean there’s even less chance of anyone being around. Let’s go.”

They reached the described stretch of blank wall opposite an enormous tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy’s foolish attempt to train trolls for the ballet. “Okay,” Draco said quietly, while a moth-eaten troll paused in his relentless clubbing of the would-be ballet teacher to watch. “Dobby said to walk past this bit of wall three times, concentrating hard on what we need.”

The trio did so, turning sharply at the window just beyond the blank stretch of wall, then at the man-sized vase on its other side. Ron had screwed up his eyes in concentration, Hermione was whispering something under her breath, and Draco couldn’t help clenching his fists at his sides as he stared straight ahead of him. _We need somewhere to learn to fight_ ....he thought. _Just give us a place to practice...somewhere they can’t find us..._

“Draco,” Hermione suddenly gasped sharply, as they wheeled around after their third walk past.

A highly polished door had appeared in the wall. Ron was staring at it, looking slightly wary. Draco reached out more confidently, seizing the brass handle and pulling open the door. He led the way into a spacious room lit with flickering torches like those that illuminated the dungeons eight floors below.

The walls were lined with wooden bookcases, and instead of chairs there were large silk cushions scattered across the floor. A set of shelves at the far end of the room carried a range of instruments such as Sneakoscopes, Secrecy Sensors, and a large, cracked Foe-Glass. “These will be good when we’re practicing Stunning,” Ron remarked enthusiastically, prodding one of the cushions with his foot.

“And just look at these books!” Hermione said excitedly, running a finger along the spines of the large leather-bound tomes. “ _A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions_ ... _The Dark Arts Outsmarted_ ... _Self-Defensive Spellwork_ ...wow...” She looked back over at Draco, her face positively glowing, and he could see clearly that the presence of hundreds of books had reaffirmed for Hermione that what they were doing was right. “Draco, this is wonderful, there’s everything we need here!” And without further ado, she slid _Jinxes for the Jinxed_ from its shelf, sank onto the nearest cushion, and began to read.

“It’s perfect,” Draco agreed quietly, taking in the space and smiling smugly. “It’s as if Hogwarts wants us to fight back.”

Now that they had the location settled, they parted ways with the decision made that Ron and Hermione would find the best-suited time for the first lesson, and then communicate it to Draco somehow. To Draco’s shock, Hermione pressed the Marauders’ Map into his hands before leaving. “You face the steepest risk,” she said solemnly, and behind her, he could see Ron nodding in agreement. “We can pass it around the three of us, if needed, but generally speaking I’m quite confident that it’s you who needs it most.”

For a moment, Draco didn’t know what to say, feeling irrationally choked up. He looked back and forth between them, swallowing. “...thank you. For--for trusting me.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, and she reached out, squeezing his hand gently as he gripped the Map tightly. “What you’re doing, you’ve more than earned our faith in you,” she told him quietly. “Be careful, please.” With that, she checked the Map before showing him how to erase it, and then she and Ron slipped out of the Room. Draco watched the dots bearing their names traverse the castle up to Gryffindor Tower, and then he cleared the Map, and set out for his own dorms.

There was another flyer on the House noticeboards the following morning, and when Draco read it, he felt his stomach twist uneasily. It appeared to be a direct follow-up to the Educational Decree that had granted Umbridge her role of the High Inquisitor.

_Proclamation: Educational Decree No. 98_

_Those wishing to join the_

**_Inquisitorial Squad_ **

_May sign up in the_

_High Inquisitor’s Office_

_Signed,_

_Delores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor_

“Huh.” Draco started, turning to find Pansy standing at his shoulder, eyeing it. “I guess she’s getting paranoid about people slipping things past her. What do you reckon?”

Draco weighed his options, feeling a cold pit settle in his stomach. “I guess so,” he said at last. “Are you...going to join?” Even asking hurt--Draco didn’t want to see his best friend drifting further and further from the path he was choosing. But it would be suspicious if he didn’t at least ask, especially with the little performance he’d given in Potions class, acting like he approved of Umbridge.

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather not, but I mean...it’d be kind of expected of us, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him with raised eyebrows. “What do you think your father would say if you don’t sign up?”

Once again, Draco had the impulse to be blunt and honest with his lifelong best friend; his knee-jerk response was that he didn’t give a damn what his father would say, he had lost respect for the older man over the course of the summer. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed the instinctive response, then exhaled in a heavy sigh. “Maybe.”

During breakfast, as the morning mail was delivered in a flurry of feathers and soft owl hooting, Draco started as an unfamiliar barn owl suddenly landed in front of him, offering its leg to let him take the small parcel that was tied to it.

“Sweets from home?” Pansy asked, smiling as she unrolled her copy of the Daily Prophet. She knew Draco’s sweet tooth, and she was well-acquainted with his mother’s humoring it by constantly providing her son with delicious treats, often home-baked by their very attentive brigade of house-elves.

Draco smiled in confirmation, assuming her to be correct. But when he opened the box--which did contain a variety of baked goods, all still steaming with a charm to keep them fresh--Draco saw a small note tucked at the bottom of it. He handed out a few of the biscuits to his friends to keep them diverted, nibbling on his own as he read the note quickly.

_Draco,_

_I think it best if you act on the invitation that is now hanging in each of the House common rooms. Nerve-wracking, perhaps, but a secure means of tracking her actions. Rest assured, I will keep a close watch out for your safety as we proceed. This note is going to erase itself, so don’t fret about destroying it._

_~A.D._

As Draco watched, sure enough, the letters faded from view, and the parchment seemed to dissolve until it was nothing more than part of the wax paper lining the inside of the parcel to keep the baked goods warm.

He glanced toward the head table, finding Professor Dumbledore watching him with quiet interest. Draco sighed, but he nodded, turning his head towards Theo and Blaise’s conversation as if that was what he was agreeing to. Dumbledore smiled, his gaze roaming away over the House tables, content with Draco’s consent to his request.

“Let’s stay back after Defense class today,” he told Pansy softly. “I think we ought to sign up.” She nodded, looking unsurprised by his decision.

Following another maddeningly dull hour of reading--though Draco could tell that not a single person was actually taking in Slinkhard’s pointless text--the pair of Slytherins lingered as the classroom emptied, then approached Umbridge where she sat at her desk. She looked up, smiling in her usual fake, unpleasant manner at the sight of them. “Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson. What can I do for you?”

“We saw the flyers, for your Inquisitorial Squad,” Draco explained, and as he’d expected, her squashed face brightened at once. “May we sign up?”

“Of _course_ , Mr. Malfoy, I had so hoped that you would,” Umbridge simpered. She flicked her wand, and a formal-looking sheet of parchment came soaring down from her office above the classroom to land before them. Draco saw that there were a handful of names already listed, including Mr. Filch--strange, but unsurprising--Milicent Bulstrode, Crabbe and Goyle, and Cassius Warrington. “Your father will be so pleased by this decision. And the two of you being Prefects, as well, this will look _very_ good on your records.”

Once they’d both signed--and it took effort for Draco to keep his hand from trembling as he did so--she produced two little pins for them, which were intricate little letter I’s. “Welcome aboard,” Umbridge said happily. “I admit, it’s rather heavily populated by members of Slytherin House, but that’s certainly not a bad thing.”

Umbridge beamed at them both once more, then waved them off with a little shooing motion of her hands. “Now, off to your next classes! The Squad will meet very soon so we can go over your responsibilities.”

As it turned out, their “responsibilities”--to Draco’s discomfort--essentially involved serving as Umbridge’s eyes and ears around the castle, and even as a sort of brute squad when it came to enforcing her educational decrees. Any hint or whisper of disobedience to her rules, and they were expected to haul those students directly to her for questioning. Draco was amazed that after one week, there were only detentions and no expulsions yet.

He had to grant it to Dumbledore, though, the man had been right; this gave Draco unprecedented insight into Umbridge’s movements and plotting. She was very forthright with her Inquisitorial Squad, telling them of rumors regarding rule-breakers, and sharing proposed new decrees before they were implemented. Much of it was utterly stupid--students of different sexes weren’t allowed to be closer together than three feet, now--but some of them had the potential for terrible consequences.

Under her reign of rising terror, Umbridge finally began producing cruel results from her class inspections.

At the end of lunch one Friday afternoon, the Great Hall was abruptly shaken by the sound of a woman screaming from somewhere outside the room. Everyone leapt up, shocked and terrified, and rushed together into the front courtyard.

Draco pushed carefully forward through a knot of tall students and saw that the crowd of onlookers had formed a great ring, some of them looking shocked, others even frightened. Professor McGonagall was directly opposite Draco on the other side of the hall; she looked as though what she was watching made her feel almost sick.

Professor Trelawney was standing in the middle of the courtyard with her wand in one hand and an empty sherry bottle in the other, looking utterly mad. Her hair was sticking up on end, her glasses were lopsided so that one eye was magnified more than the other; and her innumerable shawls and scarves were trailing haphazardly from her shoulders, giving the impression that she was falling apart at the seams. Two large trunks lay on the floor beside her, one of them upside down; it looked very much as though it had been thrown down the stairs after her. Professor Trelawney was staring, apparently terrified, at something that Draco could not see, but that seemed to be standing at the foot of the stairs.

“No!” she shrieked. “No! This cannot be happening....It cannot...I refuse to accept it!”

“You didn’t realize this was coming?” came a high, girlish voice, sounding callously amused, and Draco, by moving slightly to his right, saw that Trelawney’s terrifying vision was none other than Professor Umbridge. “Incapable though you are of predicting even tomorrow’s weather, you must surely have realized that your pitiful performance during my inspections, and lack of any improvement, would make it inevitable that you would be sacked?”

“You c-can’t!” Professor Trelawney howled at once, tears streaming down her face from behind her enormous lenses. “You c-can’t sack me! I’ve b-been here sixteen years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home!”

“It _was_ your home,” Professor Umbridge replied silkily, and Draco was repulsed to see the enjoyment stretching her toad-like face as she watched Professor Trelawney sink, sobbing uncontrollably, onto one of her trunks. “Until an hour ago, when the Minister of Magic countersigned the order for your dismissal. Now kindly remove yourself from this hall. You are embarrassing us.” But she stood and watched, with an expression of gloating enjoyment, as Professor Trelawney shuddered and moaned, rocking backward and forward on her trunk in paroxysms of grief.

Draco heard a sob somewhere on his left and looked around; Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were both crying silently, their arms around each other.

Then he heard footsteps. Professor McGonagall had broken away from the spectators, marched straight up to Professor Trelawney and was patting her firmly on the back while withdrawing a large handkerchief from within her robes. “There, there, Sibyll...Calm down....Blow your nose on this....It’s not as bad as you think, now....You are not going to have to leave Hogwarts....”

“Oh really, Professor McGonagall?” Umbridge said in a suddenly deadly voice, taking a few steps forward. “And your authority for that statement is...?”

“That would be mine,” a deep voice rang out. The onlookers twisted around, finding Dumbledore now standing at one of the gates that led from the ground into the courtyard. What he had been doing out there was not clear, but there was something impressive about the sight of him framed in the archway against a backdrop of overcast sky and distant trees. Leaving the gate wide open behind him, he strode forward through the circle of onlookers toward the place where Professor Trelawney sat, tearstained and trembling, upon her trunk, Professor McGonagall alongside her.

“Yours, Professor Dumbledore?” Umbridge said, with a singularly unpleasant little laugh. “I’m afraid you do not understand the position. I have here—” She pulled a parchment scroll from within her robes. “--an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the Minister of Magic. Under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts has the power to inspect, place upon probation, and sack any teacher she—that is to say, I—feel is not performing up to the standard required by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided that Professor Trelawney is not up to scratch. I have dismissed her.”

To Draco’s surprise, Dumbledore simply continued to smile. He looked down at Professor Trelawney, who was still sobbing and choking on her trunk, and said, “You are quite right, of course, Professor Umbridge. As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to send them away from the castle. I am afraid,” he went on, with a courteous little bow, “that the power to do that still resides with the headmaster, and it is my wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at Hogwarts.”

At this, Professor Trelawney gave a wild little laugh in which a hiccup was barely hidden. “No—no, I’ll g-go, Dumbledore! I sh-shall l-leave Hogwarts and s-seek my fortune elsewhere—”

“No,” Dumbledore stopped her sharply. “It is my wish that you remain, Sibyll.” He turned to Professor McGonagall. “Might I ask you to escort Sibyll back upstairs, Professor McGonagall?”

“Of course,” said McGonagall. “Up you get, Sibyll....”

Professor Sprout came hurrying forward out of the crowd and grabbed Professor Trelawney’s other arm. Together they guided her past Umbridge and up the marble stairs. Professor Flitwick went scurrying after them, his wand held out before him; he squeaked, “Locomotor trunks!” and Professor Trelawney’s luggage rose into the air and proceeded up the staircase after her, Professor Flitwick bringing up the rear.

Professor Umbridge was standing stock-still, staring at Dumbledore, who continued to smile benignly. “And what,” she asked in a whisper that nevertheless carried all around the entrance hall, “are you going to do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher who needs her lodgings?”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “You see, I have already found us a new Divination teacher, and he will prefer lodgings on the ground floor.”

“You’ve found—?” Umbridge said shrilly. “ _You’ve_ found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under Educational Decree Twenty-two—”

“—the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if—and only if—the headmaster is unable to find one,” Dumbledore cut her off. “And I am happy to say that on this occasion I have succeeded. May I introduce you?” He turned back to face the gate through which he had first appeared. Draco heard hooves. There was a shocked murmur around the hall and those nearest the doors hastily moved even farther backward, some of them tripping over in their haste to clear a path for the newcomer.

Through the swirling midday mist came a face framed with white-blond hair, with astonishingly blue eyes, and then the head and torso of a man joined to the palomino body of a horse. “This is Firenze,” said Dumbledore happily to a thunderstruck Umbridge. “I think you’ll find him suitable.”

* * *

To say that Professor Umbridge was displeased by Dumbledore’s clever maneuvering around her was an understatement. She firmly ordered the Inquisitorial Squad--those who were enrolled in Divination, anyway--to keep a _very_ close eye on Firenze, and to report to her anything that could be used to prove that he was inadequate to serve as a Hogwarts teacher. She seemed to be taking the incident as a declaration of war between herself and Dumbledore; and as a result, Draco felt as if he could barely breathe, unable to risk any contact with Ron or Hermione, or any of the members of Dumbledore’s Army.

It came to a head during their next Care of Magical Creatures lesson. Draco had had no opportunities to communicate with the Gryffindors, which meant that they hadn’t been able to give him a heads up; when they arrived at the paddock for class, shockingly, it was not Professor Grubbly-Plank but rather Hagrid who was standing there, looking pleased to be back. He had a black eye and some bruising, but aside from a low murmur of astonishment, no one asked about the injuries. Ron and Hermione didn’t look surprised, though, so Draco could only assume that they had gone to see Hagrid as soon as he’d returned.

“Right now, you lot, gather ‘round the paddock,” Hagrid called. He turned picked up what appeared to be half of a dead cow, causing an outbreak of fearful muttering before Hagrid entered the paddock and deposited the carcass with a grunt on the ground. He stepped back and turned to face his class again, most of whom were creeping closer in tiny steps, peering around nervously as though expecting to be set upon at any moment.

“Come on, now, don’t be shy,” Hagrid said encouragingly. “Now, they’ll be attracted by the smell o’ the meat but I’m goin’ ter give ’em a call anyway, ’cause they’ll like ter know it’s me....” He turned, shook his shaggy head to get the hair out of his face, and gave an odd, shrieking cry that echoed through the dark trees like the call of some monstrous bird. Nobody laughed; most of them looked too scared to make a sound. Hagrid gave the shrieking cry again.

A minute passed in which the class continued to peer nervously over their shoulders and around trees for a first glimpse of whatever it was that was coming. And then, as Hagrid shook his hair back for a third time and expanded his enormous chest to call again, Draco spotted movement in the black space between two gnarled yew trees. A pair of blank, white, shining eyes were growing larger through the gloom and a moment later the dragonish face, neck, and then skeletal body of a great, black, winged horse emerged from the darkness.

It looked around at the class for a few seconds, swishing its long black tail, then bowed its head and began to tear flesh from the dead cow with its pointed fangs. Draco relaxed at once, pleased that Hagrid knew about the thestrals too. He supposed that only made sense; the older man was gamekeeper, he was likely the one that tended to the herd--along with Luna, of course.

Ron spoke up, still staring around into the trees as he asked, “Hagrid, shouldn’t you call again?” Most of the rest of the class were wearing expressions as confused and nervously expectant as Ron’s and were still gazing everywhere but at the horse standing feet from them. Aside from Draco, there were only two other people who seemed to be able to see them: a stringy Slytherin boy standing just behind Goyle was watching the horse eating with an expression of great distaste on his face, and Neville, whose eyes were following the swishing progress of the long black tail.

“Oh, an’ here comes another one!” Hagrid said proudly, as a second black horse appeared out of the dark trees, folded its leathery wings closer to its body, and dipped its head to gorge on the meat. “Now...put yer hands up, who can see ’em?” Draco hesitated, then sighed internally, keeping his hand down. There was no way to admit that he could see the thestrals without at least some of his peers then wanting to know how and why, and he could not share those details of his summer suffering.

“Excuse me,” Crabbe suddenly said, in a sneering voice, “but what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?”

For answer, Hagrid pointed at the cow carcass on the ground. The whole class stared at it for a few seconds, then several people gasped and Parvati squealed. Draco understood why: bits of flesh stripping themselves away from the bones and vanishing into thin air had to look very odd indeed. “What’s doing it?” Parvati demanded in a terrified voice, retreating behind the nearest tree. “What’s eating it?”

“Thestrals,” Hagrid said proudly, and Hermione gave a soft “oh!” of comprehension at Ron’s shoulder. “Hogwarts has got a whole herd of ’em in here. Now, who knows why some o’ you can see them an’ some can’t?” Hermione raised her hand, to no one’s surprise. “Go on then,” Hagrid said at once, beaming at her.

“The only people who can see thestrals,” she said, “are people who have seen death.”

“Tha’s exactly right,” said Hagrid solemnly, “ten points ter Gryffindor. Now, thestrals—”

" _Hem, hem_.” Professor Umbridge had arrived. She was standing a few feet away from Draco, wearing her green hat and cloak again, her clipboard at the ready.

Hagrid, who had never heard Umbridge’s fake cough before, was gazing in some concern at the closest thestral, evidently under the impression that it had made the sound.

“ _Hem, hem_.”

“Oh hello!” Hagrid said, smiling, having located the source of the noise.

“You received the note I sent to your cabin this morning?” Umbridge asked, using a horribly loud, slow voice, as though she was addressing somebody both foreign and very slow. “Telling you that I would be inspecting your lesson?”

“Oh yeah,” Hagrid confirmed brightly. “Glad yeh found the place all righ’! Well, as you can see—or, I dunno—can you? We’re doin’ thestrals today—”

“I’m sorry?” Umbridge interrupted him loudly, cupping her hand around her ear and frowning. “What did you say?”

Hagrid looked a little confused, but Draco was instantly furious, seeing exactly what she was doing. Behind her back, he could see that Hermione, too, looked enraged. “Er—thestrals!” Hagrid repeated loudly. “Big—er—winged horses, yeh know!” He flapped his gigantic arms hopefully.

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows at him and muttered as she made a note on her clipboard, “‘Has...to...resort...to...crude...sign...language...’”

“Well...anyway...” Hagrid said hesitantly, turning back to the class and looking slightly flustered. “Erm...what was I sayin’?”

“‘Appears...to...have...poor...short...term...memory...’” muttered Umbridge, loudly enough for everyone to hear her. Next to Draco, Crabbe was looking as though Christmas had come a month early. Ron was now mirroring Hermione’s expression of open fury as they glared at Umbridge’s back.

“Oh yeah,” said Hagrid, throwing an uneasy glance at Umbridge’s clipboard, but plowing on valiantly. “Yeah, I was gonna tell yeh how come we got a herd. Yeah, so, we started off with a male an’ five fe-males. This one,” he patted the first horse to have appeared, “name o’ Tenebrus, he’s my special favorite, firs’ one born here in the forest—”

“Are you aware,” Umbridge said loudly, interrupting him yet again, “That the Ministry of Magic has classified thestrals as ‘dangerous’?”

Hagrid merely chuckled, and Draco’s heart sank. “Thestrals aren’ dangerous! All righ, they might take a bite outta you if yeh really annoy them—”

“‘Shows...signs...of...pleasure...at...idea...of...violence...’” muttered Umbridge, scribbling on her clipboard again.

“No—come on!” Hagrid protested, looking a little anxious now. “I mean, a dog’ll bite if yeh bait it, won’ it—but thestrals have jus’ got a bad reputation because o’ the death thing—people used ter think they were bad omens, didn’ they? Jus’ didn’ understand, did they?”

Umbridge did not answer him; she finished writing her last note, then looked up at Hagrid and said, again very loudly and slowly, “Please continue teaching as usual. I am going to walk—” She mimed walking, and now Crabbe and Goyle were having silent fits of laughter—“Among the students—” She pointed around at individual members of the class— “And ask them questions.” She pointed at her mouth to indicate talking.

Hagrid stared at her, clearly at a complete loss to understand why she was acting as though he did not understand normal English. Even from several feet away, Draco could see that Hermione had tears of fury in her eyes now, and he heard her when she whispered “You hag, you evil hag!” as Umbridge walked over to Crabbe and Goyle, smiling indulgently as they continued laughing. “I know what you’re doing, you awful, twisted, vicious—”

“Erm...anyway,” Hagrid went on, clearly struggling to regain the flow of his lesson, “So—thestrals. Yeah. Well, there’s loads o’ good stuff abou’ them....”

“Do you find,” Professor Umbridge said in a ringing voice to Crabbe, “that you are able to understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?”

Crabbe, too, had tears in his eyes, but these were tears of laughter; his answer was almost incoherent because he was trying to suppress his cackles. “No...because...well...it sounds...like grunting a lot of the time....”

The few unbruised bits of Hagrid’s face flushed, but he tried to act as though he had not heard Crabbe’s answer. “Er...yeah...good stuff abou’ thestrals. Well, once they’re tamed, like this lot, yeh’ll never be lost again. ‘Mazin’ senses o’ direc-tion, jus’ tell ’em where yeh want ter go—”

“Assuming they can understand you, of course,” Crabbe said loudly, and both Goyle and Blaise broke into renewed chuckles. Professor Umbridge smiled encouragingly at them, and then turned towards Neville.

“You can see the thestrals, Longbottom, can you?” she said. Neville nodded. “Whom did you see die?” she asked, her tone indifferent, and Draco wanted desperately to punch her in the throat.

“My...my grandad,” Neville replied quietly.

“And what do you think of them?” she said, waving her stubby hand at the horses, who by now had stripped a great deal of the carcass down to the bone.

“Erm,” said Neville nervously, with a worried glance at Hagrid. “Well, they’re...er...okay....” 

“‘Students...are...too...intimidated...to...admit...they...are...frightened....’” muttered Umbridge, making another note on her clipboard.

“No!” said Neville, looking upset, “no, I’m not scared of them— !”

“It’s quite alright, dear,” Umbridge said, patting Neville on the shoulder with what she evidently intended to be an understanding smile, though it looked more like a leer to Draco. “Well, Hagrid,” she turned to look up at him again, speaking once more in that loud, slow voice, “I think I’ve got enough to be getting along with....You will receive—” She mimed taking something from the air in front of her—“The results of your inspection—” She pointed at the clipboard—“In ten days’ time.” She held up ten stubby little fingers; then, her smile wider and more toadlike than ever before beneath her green hat, she bustled from their midst, leaving Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise in fits of laughter, Hermione actually shaking with fury, and Neville looking confused and upset.

Draco held his breath, barely able to move for fear of fracturing, and letting his own anger show far too clearly on his face.

The remainder of the lesson was spent just observing the thestrals, with Hagrid guiding a few brave souls who could not see them to actually touch the creatures. It was during this period that Hermione managed to catch Draco’s eye, petting one of the thestrals that was lying down--and then, when no one but the two of them were looking, leaving a folded piece of parchment on the ground by its cloven hoof.

Draco moved to take her place, petting the foal distractedly as he crouched to grab the note. As he expected, it was brief: _Tonight. Told everyone, they’ll be there._

Draco nodded, shredding it between his fingers and letting the foal nibble curiously at the scraps, reducing them to pulp. He looked back at Hermione, and found that she was watching him with a deep look of sorrow in her eyes. For a heartbeat, Draco was confused--and then he realized that she was watching his hands as he interacted with the thestral foal, clearly able to see it as it nuzzled his fingers.

She knew what his summer had held, so Draco knew that it wasn’t the basic fact of his being able to see them that saddened her. It was deeper than that, knowing exactly whose deaths he’d witnessed, and how, that had her gazing at him with such compassion.

He could not stop thinking over the incidents with Umbridge as he waited in the Slytherin common room that evening, needing an opportune moment to creep away and head for the Room of Requirement. Trelawney’s sacking, the mounting tension with Dumbledore, and the clear signs that Umbridge was next gunning for Hagrid’s removal....things were getting dicey.

He startled as Pansy dropped onto the sofa beside him, one perfectly-shaped eyebrow arching. “Alright, Malfoy, spill it. _What_ is going on with you this year?”

Draco stared at her, bewildered and mildly alarmed. He knew that she could almost always see through him, it was likely that no one alive knew him better or more intimately than Pansy did--but he’d been so careful, so desperate to conceal all of this, how had she seen past it? “I don’t--”

“You’re not okay, so something is up,” she cut him off at once. “Ever since we came back, you’ve been quieter, anxious, a right hot mess, really. Please, Draco,” Pansy added, her voice and expression both softening. “You’re my best friend in the world, you’re practically my brother. Whatever’s hurting you, I need to know it. I’ll stand by you, too, you _know_ that I will. No matter what it is.”

A confused, fragile bubble of hope burst into life inside his chest. “Really?” Draco asked softly. “And what if what’s bothering me is a fundamental change in world view, Pans?”

She blinked, processing that. “Meaning what, exactly?”

Draco swallowed hard. This was a fork in the road; things could either go amazingly, and his life could become substantially better...or he could be about to throw it all away, and endanger everyone he cared about.

But if he was honest, the loneliness was wearing him down too hard.

“Voldemort’s back, Pans,” he whispered, watching as her eyes widened into near-perfect circles, they were so round. “What Her--Granger said in Umbridge’s first class--she said all that because I told them the truth. I told her, and Weasley, and Professor Dumbledore.” Draco swallowed hard, keeping his voice as low as possible. “He came back the night of the Third Task. Killed Potter and Diggory. And took over Malfoy Manor. I spent the entire summer trapped there with him.”

There was a long, long silence. Pansy stared at him intently, seemingly reading his soul through their linked gazes, before she finally spoke, equally quiet. “And you told Dumbledore.”

Draco nodded, reaching out to grasp her hand tightly. “I had to. He’s--Pans, the Dark Lord is _nothing_ like we’ve been told. He’s not powerful or impressive--I mean, he _is_ powerful, but he’s...he’s horrible.” He closed his eyes for a moment, shuddering. “He’s despicable. He tortured and killed a dozen people at my house, he hunted down and murdered Death Eaters who didn’t come back to him. I’ve never been so afraid of someone in my life.”

Pansy was still again, the seconds ticking by between them, the only sound the soft ticking of the emerald and opal-studded clock above the fireplace. Then she nodded at last, turning her hand over to link her fingers through his. She raised her other hand, cupping Draco’s face tenderly.

“I don’t know if your Gryffindors will give me a chance,” she murmured. “But I meant it, Draco, I’ll stand by you.”

He could have wept. “I’ve missed you,” Draco admitted, his voice cracking just a little. “Merlin, I’ve needed you so much.” They moved forward at the same time, arms wrapping around one another in a tight, fierce hug, Pansy rubbing his back gently and whispering soothing nonsense in his ear.

“Is that why my father is missing?” Theo’s voice jolted Draco out of the spell of peace, being cradled in his best friend’s embrace, and he jerked back, looking in horror at where the other Slytherin boy was emerging from behind one of the pillars that lined the marble steps leading off towards the dormitories. “Did the Dark Lord summon him?”

Draco looked around fearfully, but there was no one else present to hear them. Theo did not look as if he was about to run off and write to Voldemort about Draco’s betrayal; instead, his blue eyes were intent, face blank, as he waited for Draco to answer him.

Finally, he managed a nod. “He--yes and no. The first night--the night of the Third Task, some answered the Mark and came to him. Others didn’t, and he...he had them collected.” Draco swallowed hard. “Your father didn’t come that night.”

Theo continued to watch him, still expressionless; after a moment, his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he drew a deep breath through his nose. “Did Voldemort murder my father?”

Never in his life had Draco wanted to answer something less. But he forced himself to stand, moving around the black leather sofa and coming to stand in front of his friend. Theo didn’t move back, nor did he stop Draco when he reached out, taking one of the shorter boy’s hands gently in his. “Yes,” Draco whispered. “He did. I’m--”

“Is that why you could see the thestrals?” Theo asked, cutting him off. “I could tell by your face that you could. Thought maybe one of your grandparents, or--but you didn’t raise your hand. Because it was--what Voldemort did?”

 _And so much more,_ Draco thought, thinking of Karkaroff, and the others who had knelt there in the grass alongside Theodore Nott, Sr. But Theo, standing before him with grief beginning to fracture through his seeming composure, didn’t need to know about that. He needed an answer to his own loss, and no other. “Yes,” Draco said again. “It--it was quick, in the end. I’m sorry.”

Perhaps that counted as a lie--the moment of death had been quick, coldly and cruelly so. But the days and weeks of torture before that, of course, had been anything but fast.

Theo looked past him, at Pansy, but Draco didn’t dare look away from his face to check what passed between them. Then Theo sighed, his shoulders slumping, and he looked back at Draco; a single tear went down his cheek, with no other sign of his pain showing. “Right, then. I’m with you, too. When do we tell the Gryffindors?”

Draco inhaled carefully, feeling like some of the weight was finally being lifted off of his chest. The terrible compression that had been pressing down on him since this summer was finally releasing some of its hold, at the knowledge that he wasn’t going to be totally and completely isolated within his own House. He had his friends, he would be fine.

“Tonight,” he replied, before looking back to Pansy, and seeing her nod. “We’ve got a meeting to get to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to note here, in case anyone's curious, that my head-canon actor for Theo Nott is Thomas Brodie-Sangster, not Bronson Webb, though he's a sweetie. Also, Bronsons are rare and I love it. My birth name was Bronwyn. :D
> 
> [If you want to talk at us authors, ask about updates, etc, we can be found daily on Tumblr @minxchester and @xfpureblood!]


	6. Before It Breaks Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whenever he was supposed to be reading, he dwelled instead on satisfying memories of their most recent meetings."
> 
> Chapter title from "Drown" by Three Days Grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be posted on Friday mornings in general, but since there is maintenance scheduled for AO3 tonight/in the morning, we're getting this up now. 
> 
> And, so that you all know that we're committed to keeping your updated coming in a timely fashion each week, we're thrilled to share that we've prepped (as in written, reviewed, edited, and continued discussing) through chapter 10, and still plowing forward! So rest assured, you'll get your fic fixes. :D

It was a good thing being prefects meant being able to wander the halls as curfew was getting closer. Draco and Pansy could easily use the excuse that they were making their rounds, and Theo could just walk with them, because as Slytherins they knew how to intimidate others in leaving them alone. So, walking the corridors this late, it wasn’t like anyone would stop them.

Upon reaching the sixth floor, Draco showed Pansy and Theo how to walk back and forth, concentrating on the Room and what they needed, before the door finally appeared, and he led the way inside, finding that Ron and Hermione were already there, with Ron examining the Dark Detectors and Hermione still reading one of the books she had tugged off the shelf. They both looked up automatically when they came in, but the looks of surprise on their faces were expected, and Draco held his hands up.

“I know this is a shock,” he said quietly. “But Pansy and Theo are my best friends. I needed to tell someone or I’d lose my bloody mind, I can’t be completely isolated surrounded by Housemates.”

“Well… No, I suppose not.” Hermione shut her book, eyeing Pansy and Theo with some trepidation, but she got up and came over the trio regardless. “I was actually beginning to worry about your safety in Slytherin. I know a lot of your Housemates would be happy that Voldemort is back.”

“The bastard killed my father for not returning to his summons the night Potter and Diggory died,” Theo said. “I don’t owe him shit.”

“And I’m not leaving my best friend out to dry,” Pansy added, arching an eyebrow. “I know we have bad history Granger, but I know which side to back, and I’m not stepping down. If you’ll have us, we’re here for all of you, not just Draco.”

Ron and Hermione just looked to each other for a moment before Hermione looked to Pansy and Theo with a little smile. “We’d be glad to have you,” she said. “The more allies the better. Welcome aboard.” She turned to Draco then. “Everyone should be coming soon enough, so maybe it’ll be a good thing that they’ll see Pansy and Theo on our side.”

Draco smiled a bit in return. “Here’s hoping.”

It didn’t take very long after that. Ron was setting up the cushions for people to sit on, while Pansy and Theo were examining some of the Dark Detectors with interest, and Hermione was reading _Jinxes for the Jinxed_ again, when there was a gentle knock on the door. Looking around, Draco smiled as he watched Ginny, Neville, Lavender, Parvati and Dean had arrived.

“Whoa,” Dean said, staring around with a clearly impressed expression on his face. “What is this place?”

“Tell you later,” Draco replied. “Let’s wait until the others get here, I’m not going to try and repeat myself however many times.”

“What are _they_ doing here?” Ginny asked, nodding to Pansy and Theo as they looked back at the Gryffindors.

“They’re on our side,” Draco said. “Trust me, if we’re going to pull this off, you’ll need more than just one sneaky Slytherin on our side.”

Ginny stared at him for a long moment, brown eyes inquisitive, before she shrugged. “Works for me.” With that, she went and plopped herself down on a cushion, with the others following suit. It was only then that Draco found that Seamus Finnegan was mysteriously absent from their group, and he found it a bit odd, as Seamus and Dean were normally attached to the hip. Judging from Dean’s expression, he was missing the Irish boy’s company quite a bit, but otherwise said nothing, so Draco didn’t ask.

By the time eight o’ clock arrived, every cushion was occupied. As soon as the door swung shut as the last people arrived, a magical key materialized within the lock, and Draco took the hint, going across the room to turn it with a satisfyingly loud click that nearly echoed in the room. At once, the crowd turned silent, their eyes darting towards him, and it felt...odd, almost. Draco was used to being the center of attention. His storytelling and pantomiming had become well known through Hogwarts, he had done it often enough, but this was one of the first few times in which people were giving him their full attention, and he wasn’t even trying to do anything funny or offensive.

“Alright.” He clapped his hands together. “Welcome to the Room of Requirement.”

“It’s fantastic,” Cho said, looking around the place with interest.

“It’s bizarre,” Fred added, frowning. “We once hid from Filch in here, remember, George? But it was just a broom cupboard then…”

“Are we going to use any of those?” Ernie asked, pointing at the Dark Detectors on the table at the front of the room. “What are they anyway?”

“Dark Detectors,” Draco said, moving back across the room. “They’re instruments used to show when Dark magic users or enemies are nearby. But from my own experience, they can be easily fooled, so I wouldn’t depend on them too...too much…” He caught a glimpse of the cracked Foe-Glass, where shadowy figures were moving around inside of it, though none were recognizable. It made the back of his neck tingle slightly, and he narrowed his eyes at it for a moment before turning away from it. “Alright, well, I’ve been thinking about the sort of stuff we ought to do first and--” He saw a hand shoot up in the air, and honestly, was he even surprised? “What is it Hermione?”

“I think we ought to elect a leader,” Hermione said.

Draco looked amused. “Aren’t you and Ron going to be the leaders?”

Her cheeks pinked up, but she gave him a dry look. “I think we ought to vote on it properly. It makes it formal, and gives whoever we chose the proper authority. So…Anyone who thinks Draco out to be our leader, raise your hands.”

His eyes widened slightly, having not expected that; but everyone raised their hands, even Zacharias Smith, though he did it very halfheartedly, as if he didn’t really like the idea but could not think of someone better for the job. Seeing so many people have this kind of faith in him, when only a small handful of them even knew him on a better level besides one conversation, it made his stomach flip flop oddly. His face felt warm, but he cleared his throat a bit. “Ah, alright, thanks. Now-- _What_ , Hermione?”

“I also think we should have a name,” Hermione said brightly, almost smirking at him, as if enjoying seeing Draco out of his element for the first time. “It would promote a feeling of team spirit and unity, don’t you think?”

“You speak as though some of us know what unity means,” Pansy remarked, more dry than hostile, and it made Theo snort a bit. The rest of the group glanced at the Slytherins with some confusion, and even a few looks of guilt, but no one protested their presence.

“How about the Anti-Umbridge League?” Angelina Johnson suggested.

“The Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group,” George suggested, grinning.

“Subtlety is lost on you,” Draco remarked, and George just shrugged, not offended in the least.

Hermione just frowned at the twins, as though she were older than they, rather than the other way around. “I was thinking more of a name that didn’t tell everyone what we were up to, so we can refer to it safely outside of meetings. Something we can shorten, so that if it’s mentioned, no one outside of the group can know about it.”

There was a moment of silence, as the group tried to think of a name. When someone did speak up, it was Cho first. “How about the Defense Association? But the DA for short, so nobody can figure out what we mean.”

“The DA is good,” Ginny said thoughtfully. “But let’s call it Dumbledore’s Army instead? That’s the Ministry’s worst fear, innit? Kind of like flipping them off.”

The room filled with a good deal of appreciative murmuring and laughter, though Ron looked ever so slightly scandalized that his little sister would promote the idea of flipping off the entire Ministry. Draco wasn’t sure why he would be; Ginny was a Weasley after all, and the Weasleys were an unconventional bunch, if all that he’d heard about the family without his father’s more prejudiced views were correct. Hermione sat up on her knees then, to be slightly above the rest. “All in favor of the DA?” she called out, before counting the hands that flew into the air. “And that’s the majority then. Motion passed!” Tugging out the list from the Hog’s Head, she got up, going to pin it carefully to the board nearby and writing DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY across the very top. Once that was done, she sat back down, crossing her legs with satisfaction.

“Right,” Draco said. “Now that that’s out of the way, shall we get to practicing? I was thinking the first thing we should do is Expelliarmus. You know, the Disarming Charm? I know it’s basic but--"

“Oh please,” Zacharias said, and it took every ounce of self control for Draco to not immediately grit his teeth at the annoying Hufflepuff. “I don’t think Expelliarmus is exactly going to help us against You-Know-Who, do you?”

There was another pause, but this time everyone was looking between Smith and Draco, as if wondering who would react first. Draco’s face was blank, carefully concealing his emotions as a good Occlumens would, but there was no denying the slight anger in those steely grey eyes. Pansy and Theo, in his peripheral vision, were swapping Sickles, no doubt betting on what he would do or say to put Smith back in his place.

“Voldemort understands one thing,” Draco said, his voice tightly controlled. “And that’s power, and others’ fear of it. The more power he has, the more fear he spreads; and with that fear, he can control people. That’s how he got people to follow him, people who, under normal circumstances, would never think of joining him if they had a choice in the matter. But that’s where he’s getting cocky. He thinks of himself as so powerful that scarcely anyone would dare to stand up to him, besides Dumbledore himself, and that’s because Dumbledore’s his equal where power is concerned.”

Stepping forward, he reached Smith sitting on his cushion, towering over the boy and causing him to shrink back. “What’s more, Voldemort came from Slytherin. We see things differently. Self-preservation is one of our strongest traits, and if given the chance, saving our own skin is normally the first thing we think of. But I’m doing what I can to save as many people as I can, so if I say we’re going to start off with something small like the Disarming Charm, then we’re going to bloody well start small. Practice it, over and over and over again, until it becomes instinct. Until you don’t have to scramble for a spell that can buy you time in the heat of battle when you’re inches from death. Until casting it is one of your best weapons. A few seconds of time is everything between life and death, do you hear me, Smith?”

Smith was pale as a sheet, but he nodded.

“Good.” Draco held his gaze for a good long minute before turning on his heel and striding towards the front. “Everyone pair up and take turns. I’ll keep an eye on everything to make sure no one pokes their own eyes out.”

Everybody got to their feet at once and divided up. Predictably, Neville was left partnerless. “You can take turns practicing with Ron and Hermione,” Draco encouraged him, and the other two Gryffindors nodded at once, beckoning him over to join them. “Right—on the count of three, then—one, two, three—”

The room was suddenly full of shouts of “Expelliarmus!” Wands flew in all directions, missed spells hit books on shelves and sent them flying into the air. Ron was too quick for Neville, whose wand went spinning out of his hand, hit the ceiling in a shower of sparks, and landed with a clatter on top of a bookshelf, from which Hermione retrieved it for him with a Summoning Charm.

Glancing around, Draco could see that he had been right to suggest that they practice the basics first; there was a lot of shoddy spellwork going on. Many people were not succeeding in disarming their opponents at all, but merely causing them to jump backward a few paces or wince as the feeble spell whooshed over them.

“Expelliarmus!” he heard Neville call out; his spell missed Hermione and hit Draco’s hand instead, sending his wand soaring, and Ginny caught it for him before tossing it back to him. “I did it!” Neville yelped gleefully. “I’ve never done it before—I did it!”

“Good job!” Draco said, smiling, and he resisted pointing out that in a real duel situation Neville’s opponent was unlikely to be staring in the opposite direction with his wand held loosely at his side--or that Neville hadn’t actually been aiming for Draco, so that sort of nullified that point even further. “Great work, Neville, keep practicing with Ron and Hermione for a couple of minutes so I can walk around and see how the rest are doing.”

Draco moved off into the middle of the room, observing the other pairs. Something very odd was happening to Zacharias Smith; every time he opened his mouth to disarm Anthony Goldstein, his own wand would fly out of his hand, yet Anthony did not seem to be making a sound. Draco did not have to look far for the solution of the mystery, however; Fred and George were several feet from Smith and taking it in turns to point their wands at his back.

“Sorry, Draco,” said George hastily, when Draco caught his eye. “Couldn’t resist...” Draco smiled, rather more appreciative of their attitude towards Smith than he supposed he ought to be as the de facto leader.

He continued walking around the other pairs, trying to correct those who were doing the spell wrong. Ginny was teamed with Michael Corner; she was doing very well, whereas Michael was either very bad or unwilling to jinx her. Ernie Macmillan was flourishing his wand unnecessarily, giving his partner time to get in under his guard; the Creevey brothers were enthusiastic but erratic and mainly responsible for all the books leaping off the shelves around them. Luna was similarly patchy, occasionally sending Justin Finch-Fletchley’s wand spinning out of his hand, at other times merely causing his hair to stand on end.

“Okay, stop!” Draco called out, but his voice went unheard in the chaos of Disarming spells being shouted. “Stop! _Stop_ !” _I need a whistle,_ he thought, and immediately spotted one lying on top of the nearest row of books. He picked it up and blew hard. Everyone lowered their wands at once, looking to him for instruction. “That wasn’t bad,” Draco began, “but there’s definite room for improvement.” Zacharias Smith glared at him. “Let’s keep trying....” Draco moved off around the room again, stopping here and there to make suggestions.

Slowly the general performance improved. Draco made his way around every other pair, then eventually came back to the front of the room, where Ron and Hermione were still working with Neville. As Draco watched them, to his surprise, he noticed that Hermione was performing the hand movement associated with _Expelliarmus_ just slightly incorrectly--not enough that the spell wasn’t working, but it did have Ron’s wand spinning over to Neville, who fumbled to catch it, rather than coming to her hand.

“Here, hold on,” Draco said, moving behind her and reaching for her wand hand before he paused. “May I--?” When Hermione just nodded, glancing over her shoulder at him with an expectant little smile, Draco stepped closer and placed his fingers over hers. “You were just adding a little more _swish_ than necessary,” Draco explained, his voice softer since his mouth was more or less directly next to her ear. “Right here, on the down-swing--”

He moved her hand for her, and Hermione murmured the spell. Ron’s wand left his hand, arcing through the air directly towards them. Draco put up the hand not wrapped around Hermione’s, catching it easily, and Hermione beamed at him as he handed it to her to toss back to Ron. “Perfect,” Draco praised her.

Only then did he register that their faces were only inches apart like this; Hermione’s eyes were shining as he complimented her, the faintest hint of pink dusting her cheeks again.

Ron cleared his throat, and Draco stepped back, nodding at the redhead. “Uh--right, let’s see you do it again--” Ron gave him a look, eyebrows raised, then complied, and Neville’s wand soared smoothly into his hand. “Good, perfect,” Draco affirmed, moving on. As he passed Theo and Pansy, he caught his best friend giving him a smirk, and Draco just looked at her in confusion before she shrugged and resumed disarming Theo.

In another corner, Cho Chang and her curly-haired Housemate had stopped practicing and appeared to be quarrelling quietly. Draco headed over, concerned. “What, did someone get hurt--?"

He’d barely asked before the girl whose name he didn’t know shook her head, giving Draco a surprisingly sour look before she turned to observe Luna and Justin, pointedly ignoring him. Draco blinked, looking at Cho in bewilderment.

“Don’t mind Marietta,” Cho muttered apologetically, looking slightly embarrassed. “She doesn’t really want to be here, but I made her come with me. Her parents have forbidden her to do anything that might upset Umbridge, you see—her mum works for the Ministry.”

Well, that explained that. Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair as he eyed Marietta, wondering if she was going to be a liability rather than a teammate. “What about your parents?” he asked Cho. “I recognize your surname, doesn’t your father also work in the Ministry?”

“Yes--and, well, they’ve forbidden me to get on the wrong side of Umbridge too,” said Cho, drawing herself up proudly. “But if they think I’m not going to fight You-Know-Who after what happened to Cedric—”

She broke off, looking abruptly a little more emotional; Draco nodded, giving her an understanding look. “That’s about the score for most of us,” he told her softly. “It’s a risk, a huge one--but what choice do we have? You're doing the right thing, Cho, that I can promise you.” Her grateful smile made him reach out, giving her shoulder a gentle pat. “Keep it up.”

Terry Boot’s wand suddenly went whizzing past Draco’s ear and hit Alicia Spinnet hard on the nose, startling him back into focusing on the room at large.

“Well, my father is very supportive of any anti-Ministry action!” Luna spoke up proudly from just behind Draco; evidently she had been eavesdropping on his conversation while Justin Finch-Fletchley attempted to disentangle himself from the robes that had flown up over his head. “He’s always saying he’d believe anything of Fudge, I mean, the number of goblins Fudge has had assassinated! And of course he uses the Department of Mysteries to develop terrible poisons, which he feeds secretly to anybody who disagrees with him. And then there’s his Umgubular Slashkilter—"

“Don’t ask,” Draco muttered to Cho as she opened her mouth, looking puzzled. She giggled, nodding before turning back to Marietta, who returned to her side once she saw that Draco wasn’t still talking to her.

“Hey, Draco?” Hermione called from the other end of the room, “Have you checked the time?” He looked down at his watch and received a shock—they needed to get back to their common rooms immediately or risk being caught and punished by Filch for being out-of-bounds well past curfew. And a good handful of them were fourth years or below, too, so they didn’t even have the freedom of a later deadline.

He blew his whistle; everybody stopped shouting, “Expelliarmus!” and the last couple of wands clattered to the floor. “Well, that was pretty good,” Draco said, wrapping up, “But we’ve gone pretty late, we’d better leave it here. Same time, same place, next week?”

“Sooner!” Dean spoke up eagerly, and many people nodded in agreement.

Angelina, however, said quickly, “The Quidditch season’s about to start, we need team practices too!”

“Let’s say next Wednesday night, then,” Draco said, making sure not to sound irritated at making concessions for Quidditch--if he’d still been on Slytherin’s team, after all, he would be more concerned about it, as well. “And we can decide on additional meetings then....Come on, we’d better get going....”

He pulled out the Marauders’ Map again and checked it carefully for signs of teachers on the seventh floor. Draco let them all leave in threes and fours, watching their tiny dots anxiously to see that they returned safely to their dormitories: the Hufflepuffs to the basement corridor that also led to the kitchens, the Ravenclaws to a tower on the west side of the castle, and the Gryffindors along the corridor to the seventh floor and the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“That was really, really good, Draco,” Hermione said quietly, when finally it was just her, Draco, and Ron left. “It went better than I had ever imagined.”

“Yeah, it was!” said Ron enthusiastically, as they slipped out of the door and watched it melt back into stone behind them. “Did you see me disarm Hermione?”

“Only once,” Hermione retorted, clearly stung by his smug tone. “I got you loads more than you got me—”

“I did not only get you once, I got you at least three times—”

“Well, if you’re counting the one where you tripped over your own feet and knocked the wand out of my hand—”

Draco left them to continue on their way, using the Map to navigate back downstairs after Theo and Pansy’s little moving dots, smiling fondly as he heard them bickering along the way back to Gryffindor Tower.

He felt as though he were carrying some kind of talisman inside his chest over the following two weeks, a glowing secret that supported him through Umbridge’s classes and even made it possible for him to smile blandly as he looked into her horrible bulging eyes. He and the DA were resisting her under her very nose, doing the very thing that she and the Ministry most feared.

Whenever he was supposed to be reading Wilbert Slinkhard’s book during her lessons, he dwelled instead on satisfying memories of their most recent meetings; remembering how Neville had successfully disarmed Hermione, how Colin Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx after three meetings’ hard effort, and how Parvati Patil had produced such a good Reductor Curse that she had reduced the table carrying all the Sneakoscopes to dust.

The one significant difficulty was that Draco, Ron, and Hermione were finding it almost impossible to fix a regular night of the week for DA meetings, as they had to accommodate three separate Quidditch teams’ practices, which were often rearranged depending on the weather conditions. But, thinking it through, Draco decided that he was not sorry about this, as he had a feeling that it was probably better to keep the timing of their meetings unpredictable. If anyone was watching them, it would be hard to make out a pattern.

Having Theo and Pansy in on it, as well, bolstered his confidence immensely. He was no longer alone the instant he had to part from the group, and the warmth of having Housemates--his best friends, no less--in his corner gave Draco a sense of security that made negotiating meeting times and planning lessons far more fun, and less stressful.

Pansy being his fellow Prefect was also a blessing, as was sharing Inquisitorial Squad duties; he had an ally, and someone who could help him come up with lies, or cover for each other when necessary with either of those roles.

Hermione soon devised a very clever method of communicating the time and date of the next meeting to all the members in case they needed to change it at short notice, because it would look far too suspicious if people from different Houses were seen crossing the Great Hall to talk to each other too often. She gave each of the members of the DA a fake Galleon (Ron became very excited when he saw the basket at first, convinced that she was actually giving out gold).

“You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?” Hermione said, holding one up for examination at the end of their fourth meeting. The coin gleamed fat and yellow in the light from the torches. “On real Galleons that’s just a serial number referring to the goblin who cast the coin. On these fake coins, though, the numbers will change to reflect the time and date of the next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the date changes, so if you’re carrying them in a pocket you’ll be able to feel them. We take one each, and when Draco or I set the date of the next meeting, we’ll change the numbers on one of our coins, and because I’ve put a Protean Charm on them, they’ll all change to mimic ours.”

A blank silence greeted Hermione’s words. She looked around at all the faces upturned to her, rather disconcerted by the lack of immediate response. “Well—I thought it was a good idea,” she said uncertainly, “I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to turn out our pockets, there’s nothing fishy about carrying a Galleon, is there? But...well, if you don’t want to use them..."

“You can do a Protean Charm?” Terry Boot asked, eyes wide. When Hermione nodded, he gaped at her. “But that’s ...that’s N.E.W.T. standard, that is,” he said weakly.

“Oh,” said Hermione, trying to look modest. “Oh...well...yes, I suppose it is....”

“How come you’re not in Ravenclaw?” Terry demanded, staring at Hermione with something close to wonder. “With brains like yours?”

“Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting me in Ravenclaw during my Sorting,” said Hermione brightly, “But it decided on Gryffindor in the end. So does that mean we’re using the Galleons?” There was a murmur of assent and everybody moved forward to collect one from the basket.

Draco studied his coin, impressed and pleased, before sideways at Hermione. “You know what these remind me of?” Hermione shook her head, looking at him in question, and Draco’s smile twisted a little. “The Dark Mark. Voldemort touches one of them, and all their scars burn, and they know they’ve got to join him.”

“Well...yes,” Hermione replied quietly, her eyes downcast. “That is where I got the idea...but you’ll notice I decided to engrave the date on bits of metal rather than on our members’ skin...."

“Yes...I think I definitely prefer your way,” Draco said, giving her shoulder a gentle nudge to indicate that he thought it was entirely a good thing. He slipped his Galleon into his pocket. “I suppose the only danger with these is that we might accidentally spend them.”

“Fat chance,” Ron remarked, who was examining his own fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air. “I haven’t got any real Galleons to confuse it with.”

As the first Quidditch match of the season drew nearer, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, the DA meetings had to be put on hold because Angelina insisted on almost daily practices for her team, which took all of the Weasley members away. The fact that the Quidditch Cup had not been held by one House for so long added considerably to the interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming game.

October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain, and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly gray, the mountains around Hogwarts became snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle dropped so far that many students took to wearing their thick, protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons.

The morning of the match dawned bright and cold. Draco listened to his Housemates chattering about the game, with Theo and Blaise both being enthusiastically cheered on as they headed to breakfast wearing their uniforms and carrying their helmets.

Draco was pleased for his friends; he knew that Theo was proving himself to be a talented Seeker, and it had been a while since he’d gotten to enjoy something as simple and fun as cheering for his House in Quidditch. Though, he had to admit, a part of him was rooting for Gryffindor--Hermione had told him that every day Ron became more and more anxious about the upcoming match, and Draco suspected that the redhead desperately needed a win in order to boost his self-confidence as a player.

Entering the Great Hall, Draco saw at once that most of the students’ attention were locked on Luna, who had gone over to the Gryffindor table and was speaking with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Many people were staring at her and a few openly laughing and pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion’s head, which was perched precariously on her head.

“I’m supporting Gryffindor,” he heard Luna tell them happily, pointing unnecessarily at her hat. “Look what it does....” She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It opened its mouth wide and gave an extremely realistic roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump. “It’s good, isn’t it?” said Luna happily. “I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, you know, but there wasn’t time. Anyway...good luck, Ronald!”

Draco hid a smile as she drifted past him, ever-impressed by her absolute assurance in her own identity. He hoped the lion head would be roaring happily away throughout the match.

“Want one?”

He looked up, surprised, and found Crabbe standing beside him and smirking rather nastily. He was holding out a badge that matched the one on his own chest--and now Draco could see that many of the Slytherins were wearing them, and waving tauntingly at Ron as he followed his sister out of the Great Hall on Angelina and Alicia’s heels. The badges were crown-shaped, and had the words _Weasley is Our King_ etched on them.

Draco frowned, raising his eyebrows. “Seems a bit more pro-Gryffindor than we usually are, doesn’t it?” He did not take the badge, but Crabbe didn’t seem bothered by that, merely tossing it across the table to Warrington, who caught it and promptly pinned it to the front of his Chaser’s uniform before following Crabbe and Goyle out with the rest of the emerald-clad team to thunderous applause along the Slytherin table.

The frosty grass crunched under everyones’ feet as they hurried down the sloping lawns toward the stadium. There was no wind at all, and the sky was a uniform pearly white, which meant that visibility would be good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the players’ eyes. Draco watched the distinctive red hair of the Weasleys entering the Gryffindor locker room with the team, sending up a silent prayer that Ron would gain some confidence--and not see the bloody badges.

Once the stadiums were filled and Madam Hooch was out on the pitch with the box containing the game balls, the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams marched in single file out of the changing rooms, and into the dazzling sunlight. A roar of sound greeted them, in which Draco realized that he could hear singing scattered throughout the assembled Slytherin audience members, though it was muffled by the cheers and whistles.

The Slytherin team reached the center of the pitch first, and stood waiting. They too were wearing the silver crown-shaped badges. The new captain, Montague, was built a bit like a mountain, with massive forearms like hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle, almost as large, blinking a little in the sunlight, swinging their new Beaters’ bats.

“Captains shake hands,” ordered Madam Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached each other. It looked like Montague was trying to crush Angelina’s fingers, though she did not wince. “Mount your brooms....” Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and blew. The balls were released, and the fourteen players shot upward; Ron promptly streaked off toward the goal hoops, turning in the air to face the rest of the match as it unfolded.

“And it’s Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I’ve been saying it for years but she still won’t go out with me—”

“ _Jordan_!” Professor McGonagall yelled, audible through the commentary speaker, and Draco smiled faintly as he looked over to see her flapping her hands warningly at Lee as he grinned back at her.

“Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest—and she’s ducked Warrington, she’s passed Montague, she’s—ouch—been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe....Montague catches the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch and—nice Bludger there from George Weasley, that’s a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet’s away—”

Lee’s commentary rang through the stadium, and Draco found himself enjoying it far more than he had in previous years, though to be fair he’d spent the last three being on the team, and therefore barely able to hear the dialogue over the whistling wind. “— dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger—close call, Alicia—and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what’s that they’re singing?” And as Lee paused to listen, the song rose loud and clear from the sea of green and silver in the Slytherin section of the stands:

_Weasley cannot save a thing,_

_He cannot block a single ring,_

_That’s why Slytherins all sing:_

_Weasley is our King._

_Weasley was born in a bin,_

_He always lets the Quaffle in,_

_Weasley will make sure we win,_

_Weasley is our King!_

“—and Alicia passes back to Angelina!” Lee shouted far too loudly, and Draco knew instantly Lee was trying to drown out the sound of the singing. “Come on now, Angelina—looks like she’s got just the Keeper to beat!—SHE SHOOTS—SHE—aaaah...”

Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal; he threw the Quaffle to Warrington who sped off with it, zigzagging between Alicia and Katie. The singing from below grew louder and louder as he drew nearer and nearer Ron—

_Weasley is our King,_

_Weasley is our King,_

_He always lets the Quaffle in,_

_Weasley is our King._

Draco turned his gaze towards Ron, a lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovering before the three goal hoops while the massive Warrington pelted toward him. “—and it’s Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington heading for goal, he’s out of Bludger range with just the Keeper ahead—”

A great swell of song rose from the Slytherin stands below:

_Weasley cannot save a thing,_

_He cannot block a single ring..._

“—so it’s the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, Weasley, brother of Beaters, Fred and George, and a promising new talent on the team—come on, Ron!”

But the subsequent scream of delight came from the Slytherin end: Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide, and the Quaffle had soared between them, straight through Ron’s central hoop. “Slytherin score!” came Lee’s voice amid the cheering and booing from the crowds below. “So that’s ten-nil to Slytherin—bad luck, Ron...”

The Slytherins sang even louder:

_Weasley was born in a bin,_

_He always lets the Quaffle in..._

“—and Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie Bell tanking up the pitch—” cried Lee valiantly, though the singing was now so deafening that he could hardly make himself heard above it.

_Weasley will make sure we win,_

_Weasley is our King!_

Angelina abruptly flew closer to where Ginny was hovering, shouting inaudibly at her; the youngest Weasley had been hovering in place for several minutes, staring at the Slytherins and then at her brother, anger etched in her face. At Angeline’s correction, she went into a dive at once and started circling the pitch again, staring around for the Snitch and seemingly forcibly ignoring the chanting that continued from the stands:

_Weasley is our King!_

_Weasley is our King!_

There was no sign of the Snitch anywhere; both Seekers were just circling the stadium. “—and it’s Warrington again,” bellowed Lee, “Who passes to Pucey, Pucey’s off past Spinnet, come on now Angelina, you can take him—turns out you can’t—but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley, I mean, George Weasley, oh who cares, one of them anyway, and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Katie Bell—er—drops it too—so that’s Montague with the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle, and he’s off up the pitch, come on now Gryffindor, block him!”

Draco watched Ron, almost holding his breath, barely noticing that people on all sides of him in the stands were now belting along, “ _Weasley cannot save a thing_...

“—and Pucey’s dodged Alicia again, and he’s heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!” There was a terrible groan from the Gryffindor end, coupled with fresh screams and applause from the Slytherins, their roaring singing getting louder and louder and starting to properly drown Lee’s voice out.

_That’s why Slytherins all sing:_

_Weasley is our King!_

But twenty-nil was nothing, there was still time for Gryffindor to catch up or catch the Snitch, a few goals and they would be in the lead as usual. Ron let in two more goals. There was an edge of panic in Ginny’s movements as she continued hunting for the Snitch, soaring wildly back and forth along the pitch.

“—and Katie Bell of Gryffindor dodges Pucey, ducks Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she throws to Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she’s past Warrington, she’s heading for goal, come on now Angelina—GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It’s forty-ten, forty-ten to Slytherin and Pucey has the Quaffle....”

Draco could hear Luna’s lion hat roaring amidst the Gryffindor cheers, and he felt momentarily heartened for his friends; only thirty points in it, that was nothing, they could pull back easily. He watched as Ginny ducked a Bludger that Crabbe had sent rocketing in her direction, maintaining her frantic scouring of the pitch for the Snitch just as diligently as Theo was.

“—Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to Montague, Mon-tague back to Pucey—Johnson intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to Bell, this looks good—I mean bad—Bell’s hit by a Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it’s Pucey in possession again...”

_Weasley was born in a bin,_

_He always lets the Quaffle in,_

_Weasley will make sure we win--_

And then, at last, Ginny seemed to spot it: the tiny fluttering Golden Snitch was hovering feet from the ground at the Slytherin end of the pitch. She dived immediately; in a matter of seconds, so did Theo, making him a green-and-silver blur lying flat on his broom....the Snitch skirted the foot of one of the goal hoops and scooted off toward the other side of the stands; its change of direction suited benefitted Theo, who was nearer. Ginny pulled her broomstick around sharply, bringing her neck and neck with Theo.

Mere feet from the ground, Ginny lifted her right hand from her broom, stretching toward the Snitch...to her right, Theo’s arm extended too, reaching, groping.

It was over in two breathless, desperate, windswept seconds—Ginny’s fingers closed around the tiny, struggling ball, centimeters ahead of Theo’s—and Ginny pulled her broom upward, holding the struggling ball in her hand as the Gryffindor spectators screamed their approval. They were saved, it did not matter that Ron had let in those goals, nobody would remember as long as Gryffindor had won—

WHAM!

A Bludger hit Ginny squarely in the small of the back and she flew forward off of her broom; luckily she’d only been five or six feet above the ground, having dived so low to catch the Snitch, but she was winded all the same as she landed flat on her back on the frozen pitch.

Draco heard Madam Hooch’s shrill whistle, an uproar in the stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells and jeering, and then Angelina was at her Seeker’s side, taking her hand and pulling her to his feet. Madam Hooch was zooming toward one of the Slytherin players above him--Crabbe, Draco realized, blinking in surprise. The Slyterhin Beater had to have known she’d already gotten the Snitch, attacking her had done nothing for the match...

He joined the crowd slowly spilling down from the stands onto the field--Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff were swarming the red-and-gold-clad team to congratulate them, while Slytherin gathered around their own in order to commiserate. Draco went with the flow of students, finding Theo and Blaise in their respective Seeker and Chaser uniforms, and he hugged both boys, offering mindless encouragements that they would win the next one.

Draco heard a snort from behind him and he turned around, seeing that Crabbe and Goyle had landed close by; Crabbe was white-faced with fury, sneering over at where Ginny and the twins were standing with their arms around each other, and Ron.

“Saved your brother’s neck, haven’t you?” Crabbe said coldly to Ginny. “I’ve never seen a worse Keeper...but then he was born in a bin....all you blood traitors were, can’t believe Gryffindor’s desperate enough to make its team almost entirely _Weasleys_.”

Draco’s mouth went dry, and he cut a worried glance towards the ginger siblings, wondering if they’d manage to keep their calm.

“We wanted to write another couple of verses!” Crabbe added, louder in order to make sure that he was still being heard, as Katie and Alicia landed and hurried to hug Ginny. “But we couldn’t find any rhymes for fat and ugly—we wanted to sing about their mother, see—”

“Talk about sour grapes,” said Angelina, casting Crabbe a disgusted look.

“—we couldn’t fit in useless loser either—for their father, you know—”

Fred and George only then seemed to realize what Crabbe was talking about, and they stiffened, looking around at Crabbe from where they stood on either side of their sister. “Leave it,” said Angelina at once, taking Fred firmly by the arm. “Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he’s just sore he lost, the jumped-up little—”

“—can’t imagine what Granger sees in him, or any of you,” Crabbe pressed right on, his sneer widening as he saw that he was getting his desired results. “Spend holidays there and everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the stink--but I suppose when you’re a Mudblood, even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay compared to the rot you come from—”

Draco couldn’t hold his tongue another second. “Crabbe, that’s _enough_ ,” he snapped, and when the other boy turned his narrowed eyes on him, he scrambled for a reason for his intervention. In his peripheral vision, he could see Hermione and the other Gryffindor girls looking at him in horror. But he didn’t dare let his eyes turn towards them, looking up into Crabbe’s face towering above him. Holy hell, he had never realized just how big the other boy was. “I think you’ve made your point, but this is getting juvenile. Do you think I want to get you in detention?”

“And what would you care?” Crabbe demanded, glaring at Draco with something in the boy’s eyes that Draco didn’t fully recognize. Something...sharper, angrier, almost bitter. “They’re blood traitors, Draco, they deserve anything they get.”

“I’m still your Prefect,” Draco said sharply, nostrils flaring. “I have my responsibilities and I’m going to take them seriously. Now you either listen to me and stand down, or I’ll talk to Professor Snape about your behavior. We don’t pick fights in public.”

“Since when?”

“Since now!” Draco’s voice rose a sharp octave, and for a long moment there was silence between the two groups. Crabbe didn’t look like he was going to back down, which was...odd. Draco normally had a good way with Crabbe before, he was always the leader, Crabbe was always the follower. He never had an issue with him in the past. “Stand down, Crabbe.”

“...Fine.” Crabbe’s jaw twitched, and he turned his back on the Gryffindor team, starting to stride towards the Slytherin team instead. “I wouldn’t want to filthy myself with blood traitors and their mudblood whores--”

“ _Fred, no_!”

Angelina and Alicia had lost their hold on George, and within seconds Fred was following his brother as they lunged at Crabbe’s retreating back. They didn’t seem to care or even notice that all of the teachers were watching. With no time to draw their wands, Fred merely drew back his fist, and sank it as hard as he could into Crabbe’s stomach--

“Fred! George! _No_!” Draco could hear girls’ voices screaming; Crabbe was yelling; George swearing, a whistle blowing, and the bellowing of the crowd around him, but he forced himself to ignore it, drawing his wand and yelling “IMPEDIMENTA!”

The force of the spell sent the three boys flying apart, finally making the twins abandon their attempt to punch every inch of Crabbe that they could reach. “What do you think you’re doing?” Madam Hooch screamed, striding into the center of the now-halted fray. She was holding her whistle in one hand and her wand in the other, and her broom lay abandoned several feet away. Crabbe was now curled up on the ground, moaning, his nose bloody; George was sporting a swollen lip; Fred was back to being forcibly restrained by the three Gryffindor Chasers, and several Slytherins were cackling in the background.

“I’ve never seen behavior like it—back up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your Head of House’s office!” Madam Hooch ordered the twins sharply. “Go! Now!” Fred and George marched off the pitch, both panting, neither saying a word to anyone as they stormed away.

After a long pause, with no one seeming quite sure of what to say or do, Theo finally nodded at Crabbe’s huddled form. “Someone get him to Pomfrey,” he suggested, and Draco shook himself from his stupid, nodding agreement.

“Right--yes, Goyle, Blaise, can you--” The two other players nodded, handing their broomsticks to teammates to be put away as they hauled Crabbe up, and started leading him away. Montague seemed to gather himself, calling for the rest of the team to head for the locker room, and Theo gave Draco a quick nod as he went to follow. Warmth brushed against him, and Draco turned to find Pansy beside him.

“Nothing more we can do out here, c’mon--we’ll find out what the twins’ punishment is at the next DA meeting, hopefully Umbridge keeps her foul nose out of it.” Draco nodded, squeezing her hand gratefully, and Pansy raised her voice to the students still standing about, who had been watching the whole ordeal. “Alright, everyone, back to the castle, this mess seems to be over--no, don’t you sass me, I’m a Prefect--”

As he started helping her herd the gawkers off of the pitch, Draco spotted Hermione speaking quietly to Ron, who nodded before following his teammates toward the locker room. Hermione pulled something out of her pocket, fiddling for a moment; Draco felt heat suddenly flare in his jeans pocket, beneath his cloak, and he saw Pansy startle slightly as well, one hand moving her back pocket before realization dawned. Hermione had set a meeting.

It was informal--more of just a gathering to address the events of the day. Hermione had typed in that same day, and set the time for later, after dinner, so that everyone would be free to attend. Despite Gryffindor having won the match, everyone was in low spirits as they assembled in the Room of Requirement.

“Banned,” Fred announced to the room at large in a hollow voice. “Me and George, both. Banned for _life_ , according to that rotten sodding toad. Don’t know if she can actually do that, but at least while we’re at school...another bloody Educational Decree, means she can overrule calls made by the professors, and even Dumbledore.”

“No Beaters...what on earth are we going to do?” Angelina looked pale as death. “I mean, I’m sorry lads, you know I am--but she’s not just punishing you two, she’s wrecked everything for the entire team.”

It did not feel as though they had won the match at all. Everywhere Draco looked there were disconsolate and angry faces; the team themselves were slumped tightly together, all apart from Ron, who was curled up in one of the large squashy cushions staring into space.

“It’s just so unfair,” Alicia said numbly. “I mean, what about Crabbe hitting that Bludger at Gin after the whistle had already been blown? Has she banned him?”

“No,” Ginny answered miserably; she and Hermione were sitting on either side of Ron. “He just got lines, I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner.”

“Shouldn’t have wasted energy trying to hold me back,” Fred remarked, with a very ugly look on his face. “I would’ve pounded that thick scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn’t been holding me back.”

Draco looked around at the miserable group, wishing he knew how to boost their spirits. The Snitch that Ginny had caught was now zooming around and around the Room; people were watching its progress as though hypnotized and Hermione’s cat Crookshanks was leaping from chair to chair, trying to catch it.

“I’m going to bed,” Angelina said at length, getting slowly to her feet. Draco held out the Marauders’ Map, letting her check it for safe passage back to Gryffindor Tower. “Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad dream....maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and find we haven’t played yet....”

She was soon followed by Alicia and Katie. Fred and George sloped off to bed a short time later, glowering at everyone they passed, and everyone but Ginny went not long after that, departing in pairs and groups of three as usual to minimize being noticed. Eventually, only Ron, Ginny, Draco, and Hermione were left in the Room.

The silence stretched out for a bit, aside from Crookshanks finally managing to bat the Snitch out of the air; Ginny freed it from him, and send it fluttering off again as she looked over at Draco. “You spoke up to stop him,” she noted, and he returned her gaze with raised eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate. "Took a bit of a risk, there, Malfoy."

He shrugged, looking from her to Hermione, who had lifted her eyes to look at him with mingled worry and gratitude. "Well, I wasn't going to stand there and listen to him insulting you lot. And being a Prefect did give me a valid foot to stand on."

Ginny smiled, more tired than amused, but a smile nonetheless. "Awww, you _love_ us!"

Draco rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation, but he could not deny that he had to try hard to keep from smiling back.

“This is all my fault,” Ron remarked, his tone glum.

“You didn’t make the twins go after Crabbe,” Hermione protested at once.

“—if I wasn’t so lousy at Quidditch—”

“—it’s got nothing to do with that—” Ginny started, but he was ignoring them both.

“—it was that song that wound me up—”

“—it would’ve wound anyone up—”

Hermione got up and began pacing, away from the siblings’ argument, watching the shadows moving in the Foe Glass. “Look, stop it, you two,” Draco said, stepping between the cushions that Ron and Ginny were occupying. “It’s bad enough without you blaming yourself for everything, Ron, this was Crabbe and Umbridge. Not you.”

Ron said nothing but sat gazing miserably at the still-damp hem of his robes. After a while he said in a dull voice, “This is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“Join the club,” Ginny muttered bitterly. “Come on--we all need to get to bed.”

* * *

It was a subdued week, following the match.

At some point, someone seemed to have lost their temper with the Slytherin Quidditch captain; Montague had an unfortunate run-in with a vanishing cabinet that resulted in his materializing in a toilet, and he was left staying in the Hospital Wing, which drastically changed Slytherin’s chances at the Quidditch Cup that year. This was relatively promising news for Gryffindor, however, as even with the twins taken from the team they were doing a valiant job, and stayed in the running until the final match of the fall term, which pit them against Ravenclaw.

But just as the students were beginning to move from breakfast towards heading for the Quidditch pitch, Draco was startled to find a tiny paper bird flutter over, landing in his lap. Hermione had made an effort to alter her handwriting, but it was still clear that it was from her. _Skipping the match--meet me at Hagrid’s_.


	7. Ties Have Come Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Hagrid said he had something urgent to discuss.'"
> 
> Chapter title from "White Rabbit" by Egypt Central.

He showed Hermione’s note to Pansy, who read it and then dropped it into her pumpkin juice so that the paper vanished into mush. “Go now,” she suggested quietly. “Just say you’re going to the edge of the Forest to work on homework if someone sees you. Granger can meet you there, no one would be surprised to see her heading for Hagrid’s instead of the match.”

Draco nodded, gathering his things and heading off without looking at Hermione. He knew that Pansy would find a way to give her a nod, or some other indication that he would be where she requested.

Waiting behind Hagrid’s hut in the shadows of the trees, Draco watched as students and teachers gradually flooded their way down to the Quidditch pitch. Slytherins could still be heard singing their stupid song, and Draco sighed as, even from hundreds of feet away, he recognized Crabbe at the lead, seemingly conducting their nasty little choir as they disappeared into the stadiums.

A lone figure broke away from the group, but Pansy had been right; no one paid any mind to seeing Hermione making her away across the rain- and snow-soaked lawn to Hagrid’s. When she reached it, Draco made his way over to the door, careful to avoid being visible from the pitch or the castle.

Hermione smiled at him warmly. “Thanks for coming--Hagrid sent me a note saying he had something urgent to discuss, but he could only do it when we knew no one would see us--he suggested during the match, and I didn’t want to come alone.”

Draco nodded. “Of course. Well, let’s see what he needs.” Hermione knocked, and after a long moment and some shuffling inside--Fang the boarhound let out several low, resounding barks--the door opened.

Hermione covered her mouth, a half-gasp, half-scream leaving her. “Merlin’s beard, keep it down!” Hagrid said hastily, ushering them both inside hastily.

“I’m sorry!” Hermione gasped, as she and Draco squeezed past Hagrid into the house and moved to stand near the fireplace. “I just—oh, Hagrid! What _happened_?”

“It’s nuthin’, it’s nuthin’!” Hagrid muttered, shutting the door behind them and hurrying to close all the curtains, but Hermione just continued to gaze up at him in horror.

Hagrid’s hair was matted with congealed blood, and his left eye had been reduced to a puffy slit amid a mass of purple-and-black bruises. There were many cuts on his face and hands, some of them still bleeding, and he was moving gingerly, which made Draco suspect that he had some broken ribs.

“What happened to you?” Draco asked again, as Hermione appeared to be momentarily too horrified to speak. Fang danced around them all, trying to lick their faces, and Hagrid nudged the dog over to his bed forcibly.

“Told yeh, nuthin’,” Hagrid repeated firmly. “Want a cuppa?”

“Come off it, Hagrid,” Hermione protested, “You’re an absolute mess! You didn’t look like this at our last Care of Magical Creatures lesson! Hagrid, have you been attacked by something? Or someone?” Draco looked at her face when she added that, seeing some rage bleeding into the concern, and he suddenly knew without her needing to say it that she was worried that Umbridge had gone after Hagrid.

“Fer the las’ time, it’s nuthin’!” Hagrid told her impatiently.

“Would you say it was nothing if one of us turned up with a pound of mince instead of a face?” Hermione demanded. “You ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid! Some of those cuts look really nasty!”

Nasty was one way to describe them. Some of them looked incredibly fresh, still bleeding and all, and several more looked like they had scabbed over. One over Hagrid’s nose, however, had a slightly green tinge to it, making Draco wonder if it was infected. Knowing Hagrid’s half-giant blood, it probably wouldn’t even bother him much.

“I’m dealin’ with it, all righ’?” Hagrid retorted. He walked across to the enormous wooden table that stood in the middle of his cabin and twitched aside a tea towel that had been lying on it. Underneath was a raw, bloody, green-tinged steak slightly larger than the average car tire.

“You’re not going to eat that, are you?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrows in horror as he eyed it skeptically. “It looks vaguely poisonous.”

“It’s s’posed ter look like that, it’s dragon meat,” Hagrid said back, giving Draco a look. Hermione had managed to clue him in about Draco’s change in loyalties, since his return to Hogwarts, but Hagrid still seemed mildly bewildered every time he saw the blonde with her. “An’ I didn’ get it ter eat.” He picked up the steak and slapped it over the left side of his face. Greenish blood trickled down into his beard as he gave a soft moan of satisfaction. “Tha’s better. It helps with the stingin’, yeh know.”

“So are you going to tell us what’s happened to you?” Hermione demanded, pulling herself into one of the enormous chairs at Hagrid’s kitchen table. “Is it to do with where you were at the start of the year?”

“Can’ share that, Hermione. Top secret. More’n me job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”

There was a pause, and Draco tried to think of another approach to get him to open up--or at least get around to why he had requested Hermione’s help “urgently” to begin with--when Hermione spoke again. “Did the giants beat you up, Hagrid?” she asked quietly. Draco blinked, looking at her in astonishment at the non-sequitur.

Hagrid’s fingers slipped on the dragon steak, and it slid squelchily onto his chest. “Giants?” Hagrid echoed, catching the steak before it reached his belt and slapping it back over his face. “Who said anythin’ abou’ giants? Who yeh bin talkin’ to? Who’s told yeh what I’ve—who’s said I’ve bin—eh?”

“I guessed,” Hermione replied apologetically. Draco looked at her in amazement, astounded yet again--somehow--by the sheer range of her logical thinking. But then again, she had known Hagrid for four and a half years now; she was certainly familiar with how the man worked.

“Oh, yeh did, did yeh?” Hagrid grumbled, fixing her sternly with the eye that was not hidden by the steak. He glared at them both for a moment, and then snorted, throwing the steak onto the table again and striding back to the kettle, which was now whistling. “Never known kids like you and Ron fer knowin’ more’n yeh oughta,” he muttered, splashing boiling water into three of his bucket-shaped mugs. “Or Harry, for that matter. An’ I’m not complimentin’ yeh, neither. Nosy, some’d call it. Interferin’.” But his beard twitched. “An’ Slytherin ain’t much better."

“I’ll not take offense to that. So you _have_ been to look for giants?” Draco asked, intrigued as he sat down at the table. Hagrid set tea in front of each of them, sat down, picked up his steak again, and slapped it back over his face.

“Yeah, all righ’,” he grunted, “I have.”

“And you found them?” Hermione asked in a hushed voice.

“Well, they’re not that difficult ter find, ter be honest,” Hagrid pointed out. “Pretty big, see.”

Draco snorted; that was rather a given. “Where are they?” he asked.

“Mountains,” was Hagrid’s unhelpful reply.

“So why don’t Muggles—?”

“They do,” Hagrid cut her off darkly. “O’ny their deaths are always put down ter mountaineerin’ accidents, aren’ they?” He adjusted the steak a little so that it covered the worst of the bruising.

“Come on, Hagrid, tell us about it!” Hermione pleaded. “Why didn't you at least write to us, let us know you were safe?”

“I haven’ been keeping up with anything that’s been happenin’ here, not till I came back,” Hagrid replied. “I was on a secret mission, wasn’ I, couldn’ have owls followin’ me all over the place—” He adjusted the meat once more over his swollen eye, took another fortifying gulp of tea, and then said, “Well, I set off righ’ after term ended, headin’ for the mountains they like ter occupy.”

“You knew where you were going?” Draco asked. “You already knew where the giants were?”

“Well, Dumbledore knew, an’ he told me,” Hagrid replied, which made perfect sense. Draco was started to suspect that Dumbledore had some level of Seer powers, himself.

“Are they hidden?” Hermione asked, leaning forward with obvious fascination. “Is it a secret, where they are?”

“Not really,” Hagrid answered, shaking his shaggy head. “It’s jus’ that mos’ wizards aren’ bothered where they are, s’ long as it’s a good long way away. But where they are’s very difficult ter get ter, fer humans anyway, so I needed Dumbledore’s instructions. Took abou’ a month ter get there. Jus’ had ter be careful, seein’ as I stick out a bit, so I’m not hard ter follow. I was pretendin’ to be goin’ on holiday with Olympe--that’s Madam Maxime, you recall her, so I got inter France an’ made like I was headin’ fer where Olympe’s school is, ’cause we knew I was bein’ tailed by someone from the Ministry. We had to go slow, ’cause I’m not really s’posed ter use magic an’ we knew the Ministry’d be lookin’ fer a reason ter run us in. But we managed ter give the berk tailin’ us the slip round abou’ Dee-John.”

Draco and Hermione traded a glance, both smiling slightly; they assumed he meant Dijon. It was an absolutely lovely city, Draco had gone there several times for holiday with his parents. He hoped they would be able to go back once the War was over and everything was safe again.

“It wasn’ a bad journey, after that. Ran inter a couple o’ mad trolls on the Polish border, an’ I had a sligh’ disagreement with a vampire in a pub in Minsk, but apart from tha’, couldn’t’a bin smoother. An’ then we reached the place, an’ we started trekkin’ up through the mountains, lookin’ fer signs of ’em...We had ter lay off the magic once we got near ’em. Partly ’cause they don’ like wizards an’ we didn’ want ter put their backs up too soon, and partly ’cause Dumbledore had warned us You-Know-Who was bound ter be after the giants an’ all. Said it was odds on he’d sent a messenger off ter them already. Told us ter be very careful of drawin’ attention ter ourselves as we got nearer in case there was Death Eaters around.”

Hagrid paused for a long draft of tea, then continued. “Found ’em,” he said bluntly. “Went over a ridge one nigh’ an’ there they was, spread ou’ underneath us. Little fires burnin’ below an’ huge shadows...It was like watchin’ bits o’ the mountain movin’. ’Bout twenty feet tall, all of ‘em. Some o’ the bigger ones mighta bin twenty-five. I reckon there was abou’ seventy or eighty there,” said Hagrid.

"Is that all?” Hermione asked softly.

“Yep,” Hagrid said sadly, “eighty left, an’ there was loads once, musta bin a hundred diff ’rent tribes from all over the world. But they’ve bin dyin’ out fer ages. Wizards killed a few, o’ course, but mostly they killed each other, an’ now they’re dyin’ out faster than ever. They’re not made ter live bunched up together like tha’. Dumbledore says it’s our fault, it was the wizards who forced ’em to go an’ made ’em live a good long way from us an’ they had no choice but ter stick together fer their own protection.”

He shrugged. “We waited till morning, didn’ want ter go sneakin’ up on ’em in the dark, fer our own safety,” said Hagrid. “ ’Bout three in the mornin’ they fell asleep jus’ where they was sittin’. We didn’ dare sleep. Fer one thing, we wanted ter make sure none of ’em woke up an’ came up where we were, an’ fer another, the snorin’ was unbelievable. Caused an avalanche near mornin’. “Anyway, once it was light we wen’ down ter see ’em. Dumbledore’d told us how ter do it,” Hagrid added, at Hermione’s stunned noise. “Give the Gurg gifts--that’s the chief--show some respect, yeh know.”

“How could you tell which one was the Gurg?” Hermione asked with renewed interest.

Hagrid grunted in amusement. “No problem,” he said. “He was the biggest, the ugliest, an’ the laziest. Sittin’ there waitin’ ter be brought food by the others. Dead goats an’ such like. Name o’ Karkus. I’d put him at twenty-two, twenty-three feet, an’ the weight of a couple o’ bull elephants. Skin like rhino hide an’ all. Went on down ter him, where he was lyin’ in the valley. They was in this dip between four pretty high mountains, see, beside a mountain lake, an’ Karkus was lyin’ by the lake roarin’ at the others ter feed him an’ his wife. Olympe an’ I went down the mountainside.”

“But didn’t they try and kill you when they saw you?” Draco asked incredulously.

“It was def ’nitely on some of their minds,” Hagrid confirmed, shrugging, “but we did what Dumbledore told us ter do, which was ter hold our gift up high an’ keep our eyes on the Gurg an’ ignore the others. So tha’s what we did. An’ the rest of ’em went quiet an’ watched us pass an’ we got right up ter Karkus’s feet an’ we bowed an’ put our present down in front o’ him.”

“What do you give a giant as a gift? Food?” Hermione asked, her eyes shining the way they did when she was absorbing new knowledge. All learning was good learning to a mind like hers, Draco knew, regardless of whether it was something she’d be tested on in school. He had to admit, Draco truly admired that about her.

“Nah, he can get food all righ’ fer himself,” said Hagrid. “We took him magic. Giants like magic, jus’ don’t like us usin’ it against ’em. Anyway, that firs’ day we gave him a branch o’ Gubraithian fire.”

Hermione said “wow” softly, and Draco gave a low whistle, impressed. Everlasting fire was rare magic, even among wizards; he was curious how Dumbledore could have prepared it so that Hagrid and Madam Maxime could safely carry it with them.

“Well anyway,” Hagrid continued, “I lies this branch o’ fire down in the snow by Karkus’s feet and says, ‘A gift to the Gurg of the giants from Albus Dumbledore, who sends his respectful greetings.’ ”

“And what did Karkus say?” Hermione asked, breathless, as if he was telling them an exhilarating campfire tale.

“Nothin’,” Hagrid said ruefully. “Didn’ speak English.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Didn’ matter,” Hagrid assured her, “Dumbledore had warned us tha’ migh’ happen. Karkus knew enough to yell fer a cou-ple o’ giants who knew our lingo an’ they translated fer us.”

“And did he like the gift?” Draco asked.

“Oh yeah, it went down a storm once they understood what it was,” Hagrid confirmed, turning his dragon steak over to press the cooler side to his swollen eye. “Very pleased. So then I said, ‘Albus Dumbledore asks the Gurg to speak with his messenger when he returns tomorrow with another gift.’ ”

“Why couldn’t you speak to them that same day?” Hermione asked.

“Dumbledore wanted us ter take it very slow,” Hagrid explained. “Let ’em see we kept our promises. We’ll come back tomorrow with another present, an’ then we do come back with another present—gives a good impression, see? An’ gives them time ter test out the firs’ present an’ find out it’s a good one, an’ get ’em eager fer more. In any case, giants like Karkus—overload ’em with information an’ they’ll kill yeh jus’ to simplify things. So we bowed outta the way an’ went off an’ found ourselves a nice little cave ter spend that night in, an’ the followin’ mornin’ we went back an’ this time we found Karkus sittin’ up waitin’ fer us lookin’ all eager.”

“And then you talked to him?”

“Oh yeah. Firs’ we presented him with a nice battle helmet—goblin-made an’ indestructible, yeh know—an’ then we sat down an’ we talked.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much,” Hagrid sighed. “Listened mostly. But there were good signs. He’d heard o’ Dumbledore, heard he’d argued against the killin’ of the last giants in Britain. Karkus seemed ter be quite int’rested in what Dumbledore had ter say. An’ a few o’ the others, ’specially the ones who had some English, they gathered round an’ listened too. We were hopeful when we left that day. Promised ter come back next day with another present.” Hagrid’s face darkened. “But that night, it all wen’ wrong.”

“What d’you mean?” Hermione asked quickly.

“Well, like I say, they’re not meant ter live together, giants,” Hagrid said sadly. “Not in big groups like that. They can’ help themselves, they half kill each other every few weeks. The men fight each other, the women fight each other, the remnants of the old tribes fight each other, an’ that’s even without squabbles over food an’ the best fires an’ sleepin’ spots. Yeh’d think, seein’ as how their whole race is abou’ finished, they’d lay off each other, but...”

Hagrid sighed deeply “That night a fight broke out, we saw it from the mouth of our cave, lookin’ down on the valley. Went on fer hours, yeh wouldn’ believe the noise. An’ when the sun came up the snow was scarlet an’ his head was lyin’ at the bottom o’ the lake.”

“Whose head?” Hermione gasped.

“Karkus’s,” Hagrid said heavily. “There was a new Gurg, Golgomath.” He sighed again. “Well, we hadn’ bargained on a new Gurg two days after we’d made friendly contact with the firs’ one, an’ we had a funny feelin’ Golgomath wouldn’ be so keen ter listen to us, but we had ter try.”

“You went to speak to him?” Draco asked, stunned and horrified. “After you’d watched him rip off another giant’s _head_?” Honestly, this was exactly why Draco could never have been a bloody Gryffindor. Slytherins didn’t normally risk their own hides for something like this, they would have called the mission off and found another way of accomplishing their goals.

“ ’Course we did,” Hagrid said promptly, “We hadn’ gone all that way ter give up after two days! We wen’ down with the next present we’d meant ter give ter Karkus. I knew it was no go before I’d opened me mouth. He was sitting there wearin’ Karkus’s helmet, leerin’ at us as we got nearer. He’s massive, one o’ the biggest ones there. Black hair an’ matchin’ teeth an’ a necklace o’ bones. Human-lookin’ bones, some of ’em. Well, I gave it a go—held out a great roll o’ dragon skin—an’ said A gift fer the Gurg of the giants—’ Nex’ thing I knew, I was hangin’ upside down in the air by me feet, two of his mates had grabbed me.”

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth. “How did you get out of that?” she asked breathlessly.

“Wouldn’ta done if Olympe hadn’ bin there,” Hagrid said, a smile now touching his swollen mouth. “She pulled out her wand an’ did some o’ the fastes’ spellwork I’ve ever seen. Ruddy marvelous. Hit the two holdin’ me right in the eyes with Conjunctivitus Curses an’ they dropped me straightaway—bu’ we were in trouble then, ’cause we’d used magic against ’em, an’ that’s what giants hate abou’ wizards. We had ter leg it an’ we knew there was no way we was going ter be able ter march inter camp again.”

“Oh, Hagrid,” Hermione murmured. “So why did it take you so long to get home if you were only there for three days?”

“We didn’ leave after three days!” Hagrid cried, looking outraged. “Dumbledore was relyin’ on us!”

“But you’ve just said there was no way you could go back!”

“Not by daylight, we couldn’, no. We just had ter rethink a bit. Spent a couple o’ days lyin’ low up in the cave an’ watchin’. An’ wha’ we saw wasn’ good.”

“Did he rip off more heads?” Hermione asked, sounding squeamish at the prospect.

“No,” Hagrid replied, more softly. “I wish he had.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean we soon found out he didn’ object ter all wizards—just us.”

“Death Eaters?” Draco asked quietly. Hermione inhaled sharply at his side, seemingly having not seen that coming, as Draco had.

“Yep,” Hagrid affirmed, his tone dark. “Couple of ’em were visitin’ him ev’ry day, bringin’ gifts ter the Gurg, an’ he wasn’ dangling them upside down.”

“How did you know they were Death Eaters?” Draco asked, still speaking much more softly. His stomach twisted with the horrifying thought that perhaps his own father had been there. Though, to be fair--Lucius hated anything to do with mud and camping and the like. He would only have gone on such a mission if Voldemort had insisted directly that it be him who went.

But come to think of it, Draco hadn’t had a letter from Lucius since he got to Hogwarts. If he ever wrote home, he only ever got a response from Narcissa. The implications of that made him feel even more ill, and he had to clench his jaw slightly to keep his composure. Hermione reached over to touch his hand for a moment, and the warmth helped to calm him down.

“Because I recognized one of ’em,” Hagrid replied. “Macnair, remember him? Bloke they sent ter kill Buckbeak? Maniac, he is. Likes killin’ as much as Golgomath, no wonder they were gettin’ on so well.”

“So Macnair’s persuaded the giants to join You-Know-Who?” Hermione said desperately. She did not seem to notice the way that Draco had stilled, looking away with revulsion as he thought about Macnair, a man he’d known his whole life. He couldn’t even stand remembering how gleeful he’d been when Lucius had come home, and told him that Macnair was assigned to execute the hippogriff that had “attacked” Draco their third year.

“Hold yer hippogriffs, I haven’ finished me story yet!” said Hagrid indignantly, who, considering he had not wanted to tell them anything in the first place, now seemed to be rather enjoying himself. “Me an’ Olympe talked it over an’ we agreed, jus’ ’cause the Gurg looked like favorin’ You-Know-Who didn’ mean all of ’em would. We had ter try an’ persuade some o’ the others, the ones who hadn’ wanted Golgomath as Gurg.”

“How could you tell which ones they were?” Hermione asked, back to looking enchanted by the adventures Hagrid was regaling them with.

“Well, they were the ones bein’ beaten to a pulp, weren’ they?” Hagrid explained patiently. “The ones with any sense were keepin’ outta Golgomath’s way, hidin’ out in caves roun’ the gully jus’ like we were. So we decided we’d go pokin’ round the caves by night an’ see if we couldn’ persuade a few o’ them.”

“You went poking around dark caves looking for giants?” Draco asked, with awed respect in his voice. “Merlin, you really are all Gryffindors.”

“Well, it wasn’ the giants who worried us most,” Hagrid said, though he was giving Draco a wry smile. “We were more concerned abou’ the Death Eaters. Dumbledore had told us before we wen’ not ter tangle with ’em if we could avoid it, an’ the trouble was they knew we was aroun—’spect Golgomath told him abou’ us. At night when the giants were sleepin’ an’ we wanted ter be creepin’ inter the caves, Macnair an’ the other one were sneakin’ round the mountains lookin’ fer us. I was hard put to stop Olympe jumpin’ out at them,” Hagrid added, the corners of his mouth lifting his wild beard as his smile widened. “She was rarin’ ter attack ’em....she’s somethin’ when she’s roused, Olympe....Fiery, yeh know ...’spect it’s the French in her...” Hagrid gazed misty-eyed into the fire.

Hermione allowed him thirty seconds’ reminiscence before clearing her throat loudly to refocus him. “So what happened? Did you ever get near any of the other giants?”

“What? Oh...oh yeah, we did. Yeah, on the third night after Karkus was killed, we crept outta the cave we’d bin hidin’ in and headed back down inter the gully, keepin’ our eyes skinned fer the Death Eaters. Got inside a few o’ the caves, no go—then, in abou’ the sixth one, we found three giants hidin’.”

“Cave must’ve been cramped,” Draco remarked lightly, and Hagrid chuckled, nodding in agreement.

“Wasn’ room ter swing a kneazle,” he agreed.

“Didn’t they attack you when they saw you?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“Probably woulda done if they’d bin in any condition,” Hagrid admitted, “but they was badly hurt, all three o’ them. Golgomath’s lot had beaten ’em unconscious; they’d woken up an’ crawled inter the nearest shelter they could find. Anyway, one o’ them had a bit of English an’ ’e translated fer the others, an’ what we had ter say didn’ seem ter go down too badly. So we kep’ goin’ back, visitin’ the wounded....I reckon we had abou’ six or seven o’ them convinced at one poin’.”

“Six or seven?” Draco repeated. “Well that’s not bad at all—are they going to come over here and start fighting for us?”

But Hermione said softly, “What do you mean ‘at one point,’ Hagrid?”

Hagrid looked back at her sadly. “Golgomath’s lot raided the caves. The ones tha’ survived didn’ wan’ no more ter to do with us after that.”

“So...so there aren’t any giants coming?” Draco clarified, disappointed.

“Nope,” Hagrid sighed as he turned over his steak again and applied the cooler side to his face, “But we did wha’ we meant ter do, we gave ’em Dumbledore’s message an’ some o’ them heard it an’ I ’spect some o’ them’ll remember it. Jus’ maybe, them that don’ want ter stay around Golgomath’ll move outta the mountains, an’ there’s gotta be a chance they’ll remember Dumbledore’s friendly to ’em....Could be they’ll come...”

“Hagrid?” Hermione spoke quietly, after a short while. “You still haven’t explained how you got in this state,” she said, gesturing toward Hagrid’s bloodstained face. “You came back weeks ago, perfectly fine--how did this happen? Who attacked you?”

“I haven’ bin attacked!” Hagrid reiterated emphatically. “I—well, blimey, I’ve just got to show you. ‘S why I asked ya ter come in the firs’ place.”

He tossed the dragon steak into the enormous bowl on the floor near Fang’s bed, sending the boarhound sprawling to dig into the treat as Hagrid splashed his face clean of the sticky green blood, then turned back to the two of them. “I need yer help--the both of yeh, and Ron. Somethin’ I’ve been doin’, and...well, with that Ministry hag sniffin’ ‘round, ‘m not sure how much longer I’ll be around to do it. And I need to keep bein’ done.”

“Show us, Hagrid,” Hermione whispered. Hagrid sighed once more, than nodded, turning to grab his cloak, and led them back out of his hut.

From there he walked into the shade of the trees on the outermost edge of the forest, where he picked up a crossbow that was leaning against a tree. “We’re goin’ in here,” he said, jerking his shaggy head behind him.

“Into the forest?” Hermione said, perplexed. “Are you--sure?”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid. “C’mon now, quick, before we’re spotted.” Draco and Hermione looked at each other, then ducked into the cover of the trees behind Hagrid, who was already striding away from them into the green gloom, his crossbow over his arm. Draco and Hermione had to run to catch up with him.

“Hagrid, why are you armed?” Hermione asked worriedly.

“Jus’ a precaution,” Hagrid replied, shrugging his massive shoulders.

“You didn’t bring your crossbow the day you showed us the thestrals,” Hermione pointed out, a bit timidly.

“Nah, well, we weren’ goin’ in so far then,” Hagrid shrugged. “An’ anyway, tha’ was before Firenze left the forest, wasn’ it?”

“Why does Firenze leaving make a difference?” Hermione asked, surprised by that mention.

“’Cause the other centaurs are good an’ riled at me for it, tha’s why,” Hagrid said quietly, glancing around constantly as they walked. “They used ter be—well, yeh couldn’ call ’em friendly—but we got on all righ’. Kept ’emselves to ’emselves, bu’ always turned up if I wanted a word. Not anymore...” He frowned deeply.

“Ron told us Firenze indicated that they’re angry because he went to work for Dumbledore,” Draco remarked, tripping on a protruding root because he was busy watching Hagrid’s profile. Ah yes, Malfoys were always so full of grace. Narcissa would be proud. He quickly pushed himself back to his feet, his face feeling hot.

“Yeah, ‘s ‘bout it,” Hagrid agreed heavily. “Well, angry doesn’ cover it. Ruddy livid. If I hadn’ stepped in, I reckon they’d’ve kicked Firenze ter death—”

“They attacked him?” Hermione gasped, sounding shocked.

“Yep,” Hagrid said gruffly, forcing his way through several low-hanging branches. “He had half the herd onto him, I couldn’t stand by an’ watch ’em kill him, could I?” Hagrid snorted. “Lucky I was passin’, really...an’ I’d’ve thought Firenze mighta remembered tha’ before he started sendin’ me stupid warnin’s!” he added hotly and unexpectedly.

Draco and Hermione looked at each other, startled, but Hagrid, scowling, did not elaborate. “Anyway,” he said, breathing a little more heavily than usual, “since then the other centaurs’ve bin livid with me an’ the trouble is, they’ve got a lot of influence in the forest....Cleverest creatures in here...”

“Is that why we’re here, Hagrid?” Hermione asked, confused. “The centaurs?”

“Ah, no,” Hagrid said, shaking his head dismissively, “No, it’s not them....Well, o’ course, they could complicate the problem, yeah....But yeh’ll see what I mean in a bit....”

On this incomprehensible note he fell silent and forged a little ahead, taking one stride for every three of theirs, so that they had great trouble keeping up with him. The path was becoming increasingly overgrown and the trees grew so closely together as they walked farther and farther into the forest that it was as dark as dusk. They were a very long way past the clearing where Hagrid had shown them the thestrals, but Draco felt no sense of unease until Hagrid stepped unexpectedly off the path and began wending his way in and out of trees toward the dark heart of the forest.

“Hagrid?” Hermione called out, fighting her way through thickly knotted brambles over which Hagrid had stepped easily. From the rising pitch of her voice, Draco suspected that she, too, was remembering very vividly what had happened to anyone they knew of who had ever stepped off the forest path. “Where are we going?”

“Bit further,” Hagrid said over his shoulder. “C’mon, you two....We need ter keep together now....” It was a great struggle to keep up with Hagrid, what with branches and thickets of thorn through which Hagrid marched as easily as though they were cobwebs, but which snagged at Draco and Hermione’s clothes, frequently entangling them so severely that they had to stop for minutes at a time to free themselves. Draco’s arms and legs were soon covered in small cuts and scratches.

They were so deep in the forest now that sometimes all Draco could see of Hagrid in the gloom was a massive dark shape ahead of him. Any sound seemed threatening in the muffled silence. The breaking of a twig echoed loudly and the tiniest rustle of movement, though it might have been made by an innocent sparrow, caused Draco to peer through the gloom for a culprit. The last time Draco had gotten this deep into the forest, he had seen Voldemort sucking blood from a dead unicorn’s neck. Not a pleasant mental image.

“Hagrid, would it be all right if we lit our wands?” Hermione called out quietly.

“Er...all righ’,” Hagrid whispered back. “In fact...” He suddenly stopped and turned around; Hermione walked right into him and was knocked over backward. Draco caught her just before she hit the forest floor, helping her back onto her feet gently. “Maybe we bes’ jus’ stop fer a momen’, so I can...fill yeh in,” Hagrid said slowly. “Before we ge’ there, like.”

“Good!” Hermione said promptly, as Draco helped her find her footing again in the darkness. They both murmured “Lumos!” and their wand tips ignited. Hagrid’s face swam through the gloom by the light of the two wavering beams, and Draco saw that he looked nervous and sad again.

“Righ,” Hagrid began. “Well...see...the thing is...” He took a great breath. “Well, there’s a good chance I’m goin’ ter be gettin’ the sack any day now,” he said, a touch emotional with the final words.

Draco and Hermione looked at each other, then back at him. “But you’ve lasted this long —” Hermione said tentatively. “What makes you think—”

“Umbridge reckons I’m the one who put a niffler in her office, the other day,” Hagrid explained. “Course it wan’, but anythin’ ter do with magical creatures an’ she thinks it’s got somethin’ ter do with me. Yeh know she’s bin lookin’ fer a chance ter get rid of me ever since I got back. I don’ wan’ ter go, o’ course, but if it wasn’ fer...well...the special circumstances I’m abou’ ter explain to yeh, I’d leave righ now, before she’s go’ the chance ter do it in front o’ the whole school, like she did with Trelawney.”

Draco and Hermione both made noises of protest, but Hagrid overrode them with a wave of one of his enormous hands. “It’s not the end o’ the world, I’ll be able ter help Dumbledore once I’m outta here, I can be useful ter the Order. An’ you lot’ll have Grubbly-Plank, yeh’ll—yeh’ll get through yer exams fine....” His voice trembled and broke. “Don’ worry abou’ me,” he added hastily, as Hermione made to pat his arm. He pulled his enormous spotted handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and mopped his eyes with it. “Look, I wouldn’ be tellin’ yer this at all if I didn’ have ter. See, if I go...well, I can’ leave withou’...withou’ tellin’ someone...because I’ll—I’ll need you two ter help me. An’ Ron, if he’s willin’.”

“Of course we’ll help you,” Draco said at once, and he did not miss the look of deep gratitude and approval that Hermione shot sideways at him for the immediacy of his promise. “What do you want us to do?”

Hagrid gave a great sniff, and patted Draco wordlessly on the shoulder with such force that Draco was nearly knocked sideways into a tree. “I can’ tell yeh how much I ‘preciate that, from yeh, Draco,” Hagrid mumbled into his handkerchief, “And I won’...never...forget...it. ‘S for certain. Well...c’mon...jus’ a little bit fur-ther through here...Watch yerselves, now, there’s nettles....”

They walked on in silence for another fifteen minutes. Draco had opened his mouth to ask how much further they had to go when Hagrid threw out his right arm to signal that they should stop. “Real easy,” he said softly. “Very quiet, now...”

They crept forward, and Draco saw that they were facing a large, smooth mound of earth nearly as tall as Hagrid that he thought, with mild concern, must be the lair of some enormous animal. Trees had been ripped up at the roots all around the mound, so that it stood on a bare patch of ground surrounded by heaps of trunks and boughs that formed a kind of fence or barricade, behind which Draco, Hermione, and Hagrid now stood.

“Sleepin’,” Hagrid breathed, relieved. Sure enough, Draco could hear a distant, rhythmic rumbling that sounded like a pair of enormous lungs at work. He glanced sideways at Hermione, who was gazing at the mound with her mouth slightly open.

She looked utterly terrified. “Hagrid,” she said in a whisper barely audible over the sound of the sleeping creature, “Who is he? You told us,” said Hermione, her wand now shaking in her hand, “You told us none of them wanted to come!”

Draco looked from her to Hagrid and then, as the realization hit him, he looked back at the mound with a small gasp of horror. The great mound of earth, on which he, Hermione, and Hagrid could easily have stood with just a few more steps forward, was moving slowly up and down in time with the deep, grunting breathing. It was not a mound at all. It was the curved back of what was clearly...

“Well—no—he didn’ want ter come,” Hagrid confessed, sounding desperate. “But I had ter bring him, Hermione, I had ter!”

“But why?” Hermione demanded, who sounded as though she wanted to cry. “Why—what—oh, Hagrid!”

“I knew if I jus’ got him back,” Hagrid said pleadingly, sounding close to tears himself, “an’—an’ taught him a few manners—I’d be able ter take him outside an’ show ev’ryone he’s harmless!”

“Harmless!” Hermione repeated shrilly, and Hagrid made frantic hushing noises with his hands as the enormous creature before them grunted loudly and shifted in its sleep.

“He’s been hurting you all this time, hasn’t he? That’s why you’ve had all these injuries!”

“He don’ know his own strength!” Hagrid said earnestly. “An’ he’s gettin’ better, he’s not fightin’ so much anymore—”

“So this is why it took you two months to get home!” Hermione gasped distractedly. “Oh Hagrid, why did you bring him back if he didn’t want to come, wouldn’t he have been happier with his own people?”

“They were all bullyin’ him, Hermione, ’cause he’s so small!” Hagrid protested.

“Small?” Hermione echoed, almost hysterically. “ _Small_?”

“Hermione, I couldn’ leave him,” Hagrid insisted, tears now trickling down his bruised face into his beard. “See—he’s my brother!”

Hermione simply stared at him, her mouth open. “Hagrid, when you say ‘brother,’” Draco began slowly, “Do you mean—?”

“Well—half-brother,” Hagrid amended, nodding. “Turns out me mother took up with another giant when she left me dad, an’ she went an’ had Grawp here—”

“Grawp?” Draco repeated.

“Yeah...well, tha’s what it sounds like when he says his name,” Hagrid said anxiously. “He don’ speak a lot of English....I’ve bin tryin’ ter teach him....Anyway, she don’ seem ter have liked him much more’n she liked me....See, with giantesses, what counts is producin’ good big kids, and he’s always been a bit on the runty side fer a giant—on’y sixteen foot—”

“Oh yes, tiny!” Hermione cried, with a kind of hysterical sarcasm. “Absolutely minuscule!”

“He was bein’ kicked around by all o’ them—I jus’ couldn’ leave him—”

“Did Madame Maxime want to bring him back?” Draco asked curiously, watching Grawp’s enormous shape rising with each breath.

“She—well, she could see it was right importan’ ter me,” Hagrid hedged, twisting his enormous hands together. “Bu’—bu’ she got a bit tired of him after a while, I must admit...so we split up on the journey home....She promised not ter tell anyone though....”

“How on earth did you get him back without anyone noticing?” Draco asked.

“Well, tha’s why it took so long, see,” Hagrid conceded. “Could on’y travel by nigh an’ through wild country an’ stuff. ’Course, he covers the ground pretty well when he wants ter, but he kep’ wantin’ ter go back....”

“Oh Hagrid, why on earth didn’t you let him!” Hermione moaned, flopping down onto a ripped-up tree and burying her face in her hands. “What do you think you’re going to do with a violent giant who doesn’t even want to be here!”

“Well, now—‘violent’—tha’s a bit harsh,” Hagrid protested, still twisting his hands in agitation. “I’ll admit he mighta taken a couple o’ swings at me when he’s bin in a bad mood, but he’s gettin’ better, loads better, settlin’ down well....”

“What are those ropes for, then?” Draco asked shrewdly. He had just noticed cords thick as saplings stretching from around the trunks of the largest nearby trees toward the place where Grawp lay curled on the ground with his back to them.

“You have to keep him tied up?” Hermione asked faintly.

“Well...yeah...” Hagrid stuttered, looking more and more anxious. “See—it’s like I say—he doesn’ really know his strength—”

Draco understood now why there had been such a suspipious lack of any other living creature in this part of the forest. “So what is it you want Draco and Ron and me to do?” Hermione asked apprehensively.

“Look after him,” Hagrid said croakily. “After I’m gone.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged miserable looks, Draco uncomfortably aware that he had already promised Hagrid that he would do whatever he asked. “What—what does that involve, exactly?” Hermione inquired.

“Not food or anythin’!” Hagrid promised eagerly, looking hopeful now that she wasn’t berating him any longer. “He can get his own food, no problem. Birds an’ deer an’ stuff...No, it’s company he needs. If I jus’ knew someone was carryin’ on tryin’ ter help him a bit...teachin’ him, yeh know...”

Draco said nothing in reply, but turned to look back at the gigantic form lying asleep on the ground in front of them.

Grawp had his back to them. Unlike Hagrid, who simply looked like a very oversized human, Grawp looked strangely misshapen. What Draco had taken to be a vast mossy boulder to the left of the great earthen mound he now recognized as Grawp’s head. It was much larger in proportion to the body than a human head, almost perfectly round and covered with tightly curling, close-growing hair the color of bracken. The rim of a single large, fleshy ear was visible on top of the head, which seemed to sit directly upon the shoulders with little or no neck in between. The back, under what looked like a dirty brownish smock comprised of animal skins sewn roughly to-gether, was very broad, and as Grawp slept, it seemed to strain a little at the rough seams of the skins. The legs were curled up under the body; Draco could see the soles of enormous, filthy, bare feet, large as sledges, resting one on top of the other on the earthy forest floor.

“You want us to teach him,” he repeated in a hollow voice, looking back at Hermione.

“Yeah—even if yeh jus’ talk ter him a bit,” Hagrid said hopefully. “’Cause I reckon, if he can talk ter people, he’ll understand more that we all like him really, an’ want him to stay....”

Draco looked at Hermione, who peered back at him from between the fingers over her face. “Out of everything you’ve ever done, is this the craziest?” he asked and she gave a very shaky laugh.

“No,” she admitted, her voice a bit shaky from near hysteria, but she looked a bit calmer now. “Remember first year? When you found out we had a dragon? I kind of miss those days.”

“Yeh’ll do it, then?” Hagrid asked, who did not seem to have caught what Hermione had just said.

“We’ll...” Draco started slowly, already bound by his promise. “We’ll try, Hagrid.”

“I knew I could count on yeh,” Hagrid said, beaming in a very watery way and dabbing at his face with his handkerchief again. “An’ I don’ wan’ yeh ter put yerself out too much, like....I know yeh’ve got exams....If yeh could jus’ nip down here maybe once a week an’ have a little chat with him...I’ll wake him up, then—introduce you—”

“Wha—no!” Hermione gasped, jumping up, “Hagrid, no, don’t wake him, really, we don’t need—”

But Hagrid had already stepped over the great trunk in front of them and was proceeding toward Grawp. When he was around ten feet away, he lifted a long, broken bough from the ground, smiled reassuringly over his shoulder at the two of them, and then poked Grawp hard in the middle of the back with the end of the bough.

The giant gave a roar that echoed around the silent forest. Birds in the treetops overhead rose twittering from their perches and soared away. In front of Draco and Hermione, meanwhile, the gigantic Grawp was rising from the ground, which shuddered as he placed an enormous hand upon it to push himself onto his knees and turned his head to see who and what had disturbed him.

“All righ’, Grawpy?” Hagrid called out in a would-be cheery voice, backing away with the long bough raised, ready to poke Grawp again. “Had a nice sleep, eh?”

Draco and Hermione retreated as far as they could while still keeping the giant within their sights. Grawp knelt between two trees he had not yet uprooted. They looked up into his startlingly huge face, which resembled a gray full moon swimming in the gloom of the clearing. It was as though the features had been hewn onto a great stone ball. The nose was stubby and shapeless, the mouth lopsided and full of misshapen yellow teeth the size of half-bricks. The small eyes were a muddy greenish-brown and just now were half gummed together with sleep. Grawp raised dirty knuckles as big as cricket balls to his eyes, rubbed vigorously, then, without warning, pushed himself to his feet with surprising speed and agility.

“Oh my...” Draco heard Hermione squeal, terrified, beside him. The trees to which the other ends of the ropes around Grawp’s wrists and ankles were attached creaked ominously. He was, as Hagrid had said, at least sixteen feet tall. Gazing blearily around, he reached out a hand the size of a beach umbrella, seized a bird’s nest from the upper branches of a towering pine and turned it upside down with a roar of apparent displeasure that there was no bird in it—eggs fell like grenades toward the ground, and Hagrid threw his arms over his head to protect himself.

“Anyway, Grawpy,” Hagrid shouted, looking up apprehensively in case of further falling eggs, “I’ve brought some friends ter meet yeh. Remember, I told yeh I might? Remember, when I said I might have ter go on a little trip an’ leave them ter look after yeh fer a bit? Remember that, Grawpy?” But Grawp merely gave another low roar; it was hard to say whether he was listening to Hagrid or whether he even recognized the sounds Hagrid was making as speech. He had now seized the top of the pine tree and was pulling it toward him, evidently for the simple pleasure of seeing how far it would spring back when he let go. “Now, Grawpy, don’ do that!” shouted Hagrid. “Tha’s how you ended up pullin’ up the others--”

And sure enough, Draco could see the earth around the tree’s roots beginning to crack. “I got company fer yeh!” Hagrid shouted. “Company, see! Look down, yeh big buffoon, I brought yeh some friends!”

“Oh Hagrid, don’t,” Hermione groaned, but Hagrid had already raised the bough again and gave Grawp’s knee a sharp poke. The giant let go of the top of the pine tree, which swayed menacingly and deluged Hagrid with a rain of needles, and looked down.

“This,” Hagrid yelled, hastening over to where Draco and Hermione stood, “Is Draco, Grawp! He migh’ be comin’ ter visit yeh if I have ter go away, understand?”

The giant had only just realized that Draco and Hermione were there. They watched, in great trepidation, as he lowered his huge boulder of a head so that he could peer blearily down at them. “An’ this is Hermione, see? Her—” Hagrid hesitated. Turning to Hermione he said, “Would yeh mind if he called yeh Hermy, Hermione? On’y it’s a difficult name fer him ter remember....”

“No, not at all,” Hermione squeaked.

“Hermy.” Draco snorted in laughter, slightly hysterical himself, and Hermione shot him a fast look. “What? Better than what Krum called you.” The look that came into her eyes at the reminder just made him laugh harder, recalling the Bulgarian boy carefully trying to sound out _Hermy-own-ninny_.

“This is Hermy, Grawp! An’ she’s gonna be comin’ an’ all! Is’n tha’ nice? Eh? Two friends fer yeh ter—Grawp, _no_!” Grawp’s hand had shot out of nowhere toward Hermione—Draco seized her by her waist and pulled her backward behind the tree, so that Grawp’s fist scraped the trunk but closed on thin air.

“Bad boy, Grawpy!” Draco could hear Hagrid yelling, as Hermione clung to him behind the tree, shaking and whimpering. “Very bad boy! Yeh don’ grab—OUCH!”

Draco poked his head out from around the trunk and saw Hagrid lying on his back, his hand over his nose. Grawp, apparently losing interest, had straightened up again and was again engaged in pulling back the pine as far as it would go.

“Righ’,” Hagrid said thickly, getting up with one hand pinching his bleeding nose and the other grasping his crossbow. “Well...there yeh are....Yeh’ve met him an’—an’ now he’ll know yeh when yeh come back. Yeah...well...” He looked up at Grawp, who was now pulling back the pine with an expression of detached pleasure on his boulderish face; the roots were creaking as he ripped them away from the ground. “Well, I reckon tha’s enough fer one day,” said Hagrid. “We’ll—er—we’ll go back now, shall we?”

Draco and Hermione both nodded, mute and wide-eyed. Hagrid shouldered his crossbow again and, still pinching his nose, led the way back into the trees.

Nobody spoke for a while, not even when they heard the distant crash that meant Grawp had pulled over the pine tree at last. Hermione’s face was pale and set. Draco could not think of a single thing to say.

What on earth was going to happen when somebody found out that Hagrid had hidden Grawp in the forest? And he had promised that he, Ron, and Hermione would continue Hagrid’s totally pointless attempts to civilize the giant....How could Hagrid, even with his immense capacity to delude himself that fanged monsters were lovably harmless, fool himself that Grawp would ever be fit to mix with humans?

At last they rejoined the path, and after another ten minutes, the trees began to thin. They were able to see patches of clear blue sky again and hear, in the distance, the definite sounds of cheering and shouting. “Was that another goal?” Hagrid asked, pausing in the shelter of the trees as the Quidditch stadium came into view and squinting ahead of them. “Or d’you reckon the match is over?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione mumbled miserably. Draco saw that she looked much the worse for wear; her hair was full of bits of twig and leaves, her clothes were ripped in several places, and there were numerous scratches on her face and arms. He knew he likely looked little better, but he reached out to gently tug some of the twigs out of her hair, causing Hermione to smile at him in thanks. The sight of it made his stomach feel like he had missed a step on the staircase, swooping a bit.

“I reckon it’s over, yeh know!” Hagrid confirmed, still peering toward the stadium. “Look—there’s people comin’ out already—if you two hurry yeh’ll be able ter blend in with the crowd an’ no one’ll know you weren’t there!”

“Good idea,” Draco agreed. “Well...see you later, then, Hagrid....Come on, Hermione, we’ll need to split up soon--”

“I don’t believe him,” Hermione said in a very unsteady voice, the moment they were out of earshot of Hagrid. “I don’t believe him. I really don’t believe him....”

“Calm down,” Draco said gently. “It’s not--”

“Calm down!” she said feverishly. “A giant! A giant in the forest! And we’re supposed to give him English lessons! And etiquette! I—don’t—believe—him!”

“We haven’t got to do anything yet!” Draco tried to reassure her in a quiet voice, ducking to one side of the castle entrance to avoid an incoming group of Hufflepuffs spotting them talking. “He’s not asking us to do anything unless he gets chucked out and that might not even happen—”

“Oh, come off it!” Hermione said sharply, crossing her arms furiously. “Of course he’s going to be chucked out and to be perfectly honest, after what we’ve just seen, who can blame Umbridge?”

There was a pause in which Draco stared at her, and her eyes filled slowly with tears. “You didn’t mean that,” he said quietly.

“No...well...all right...I didn’t,” she said, wiping her eyes angrily. “But why does he have to make life so difficult for himself—for us?”

_Weasley is our King,_

_Weasley is our King,_

_He didn’t let the Quaffle in,_

_Weasley is our King.._.

“And I wish they’d stop singing that stupid song,” Hermione added miserably. “Haven’t they gloated enough?” A great tide of students was moving up the sloping lawns from the pitch. “Oh, Merlin, I suppose we have to separate now, it’s the Gryffindors and Slytherins,” Hermione added, sighing heavily.

_Weasley can save anything,_

_He never leaves a single ring_

_That’s why Gryffindors all sing:_

_Weasley is our King._

“Hermione...” Draco said slowly. The song was growing louder, but it was issuing not from a crowd of green-and-silver-clad Slytherins, but from a mass of red and gold moving slowly toward the castle, which was bearing a solitary figure upon its many shoulders.

_Weasley is our King,_

_Weasley is our King,_

_He didn’t let the Quaffle in,_

_Weasley is our King..._

“No!” Hermione breathed, in a hushed voice.

“Yes,” Draco replied, starting to grin. “Go on, get over there to him--” He pushed her away from the wall, and Hermione hurried forward, beaming when Ron spotted her from his place on top of their Housemates’ shoulders. “ _Hermione_!” he yelled, waving his arms frantically, and looking quite beside himself. “We did it! _We won_!”

Hermione grinned up at him as he passed her; there was a scrum at the door of the castle and Ron’s head got rather badly bumped on the lintel, but nobody seemed to want to put him down. Still singing, the crowd squeezed itself into the entrance hall and out of sight.

Draco watched them go, smiling, until the last echoing strains of “Weasley Is Our King” died away.

Hermione reappeared at his side in the shadows beyond the entry steps, and after a moment, their smiles faded. “We’ll save our news till tomorrow, shall we?” Draco asked quietly.

“Yes, all right,” Hermione replied wearily. “I’m not in any hurry....” They climbed the steps together, parting ways as Hermione moved on to head into the Great Hall ahead of him.

Lingering at the front doors, Draco instinctively looked back at the Forbidden Forest. He was not sure whether it was his imagination or not, but he rather thought he saw a small cloud of birds erupting into the air over the treetops in the distance, almost as though the tree in which they had been nesting had just been pulled up by the roots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A less exhilarating chapter, but still a necessary one. <3
> 
> Feel free to visit us, we're on Tumblr as @minxchester and @xfpurebloodaesthetics!


	8. Making Me a Fighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Draco felt himself positively swelling with pride as he watched them all...everybody had made enormous progress."
> 
> Chapter title from "Fighter (Glee Cover)" by Darren Criss & Matt Bomer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday the 13th! Happy full moon on a Friday the 13th!

December arrived, bringing with it more snow, and a larger avalanche of homework than ever before for the fifth years. Prefect duties also became more and more onerous as Christmas approached, completely consuming most of the limited free time for Ron and Hermione, and for Draco and Pansy.

They were called upon to supervise the decoration of the castle (“You try putting up tinsel when Peeves has got the other end and is trying to strangle you with it,” Ron groused), to watch over the first and second years spending their break times inside because of the bitter cold (“And they’re cheeky little snotrags, you know, we definitely weren’t that rude when we were in first year,” Ron complained), and to patrol the corridors in shifts with Argus Filch, who suspected that the holiday spirit might show itself in an outbreak of wizard duels (“He’s got dung for brains, that one,” was Ron’s furious assessment).

With the worry about Grawp, hidden away out in the Forest, and whether or not Hagrid was going to be put on probation, Draco felt highly resentful toward the whole school at the moment.

The only thing he really looked forward at that point to were the DA meetings, and they would have to stop over the holidays, as nearly everybody in the DA would be going home to their families for the break. Hermione was going skiing with her parents, something that greatly amused Ron, and confused Draco, who had never before heard of Muggles strapping narrow strips of wood to their feet to slide down mountains. And Ron would be going home to the Burrow.

It took some indecision and fretting, but Draco finally forced himself to write a letter to his mother, emphasizing that several fifth years were remaining at Hogwarts over the holidays in order to take advantage of the quiet and the absence of all the students for some more intensive O.W.L.s preparation.

Theo and Pansy echoed this sentiment to their own families, and after an anxious few days--fearing the Narcissa would reply that Voldemort demanded he return home--Draco nearly melted with relief when her response was a fond assurance that she would miss him, but his dedication to his studies was wise. She promised him a special Christmas parcel to alleviate any homesickness as he spent his first Christmas away from here. Draco’s heart tugged; he did miss his mother, truly, but he did not feel any draw to ever return to the Manor. Not even for Christmas nostalgia.

Draco arrived early in the Room of Requirement for the last DA meeting before the holidays, and found to his immense amusement that Dobby must have visited, because the Room was now garlanded with brightly-colored Christmas ornaments, and a misspelled banner wishing them a “vary mery Christmas.” Draco was standing in the center of the room, enjoying the display, when the door creaked open and Luna entered, looking dreamy as always, her wand tucked behind one year like a flower.

“Hello,” she said vaguely, looking around at the array of decorations. “These are nice, did you put them up?”

“No,” Draco said, smiling. “It was Dobby the house-elf.”

“Mistletoe,” Luna observed dreamily, pointing at a large clump of white berries placed almost directly over Draco’s head. He jumped out from under it at once, giving her a sidelong look. He certainly didn’t want to offend his friend, but _that_ was not happening.

“Good thinking,” Luna said very seriously, clearly not taking it as a personal insult. “It’s often infested with nargles.”

Draco was saved the necessity of asking what nargles were by the arrival of Angelina, Katie, and Alicia. All three of them were breathless and looked extremely cold. “Well,” said Angelina sadly, pulling off her cloak and throwing it into a corner, “We’ve finally replaced Fred and George. We’ve got new Beaters.”

“Who?” Draco asked, mostly to be friendly. Though he supposed it was worth knowing about, seeing as he’d become rather as invested in Gryffindor’s team as he was in his own--perhaps even more so. Theo and Blaise were really his only cause for loyalty to his House’s team, as uncomfortable as that realization was. Draco had been avoiding Crabbe ever since the ugliness after the first match.

“Andrew Kirke,” said Alicia without enthusiasm, “and Jack Sloper. Neither of them are brilliant, but compared with the rest of the idiots who turned up...” The arrival of Ron, Hermione, and Neville brought this depressing discussion to an end and within five minutes, the room was full enough to prevent him seeing Angelina’s morose face.

“Okay,” Draco began, calling them all to order. “I thought this evening we should just go over the things we’ve done so far, because it’s the last meeting before the holidays and there’s no point starting anything new right before a three-week break—”

“We’re not doing anything new?” Zacharias Smith complained, in a disgruntled whisper loud enough to carry through the room. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come....”

“We’re all really sorry that no one told you, then,” Fred shot back, just as loudly. Several people sniggered. Draco saw Hermione laughing among them, and he felt that same strange swooping sensation in his stomach that he often felt when she smiled at him.

“We can practice in pairs, as usual,” Draco continued. “We’ll start with the Impediment Jinx, just for ten minutes, then we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again.” They all divided up obediently; Draco partnered Neville with Ron and Hermione as usual.

The room was soon full of intermittent cries of “Impedimenta!” People froze for a minute or so, during which their partners would stare aimlessly around the room watching other pairs at work, then would unfreeze and take their turn at the jinx.

Neville had improved beyond all recognition. After a while, when Ron had unfrozen three times in a row and Hermione twice, Draco had Neville switch over to join another pair for a change while he continued walking around the room, and watching the proceedings.

After ten minutes on the Impediment Jinx, they laid out cushions all over the floor and started practicing Stunning again. Space was really too confined to allow them all to work this spell at once; half the group observed the others for a while, then swapped over. Draco felt himself positively swelling with pride as he watched them all. True, Neville did Stun Padma Patil rather than Dean, at whom he had been aiming, but it was a much closer miss than usual, and everybody else had made enormous progress. At the end of an hour, Draco called for a halt.

“You’re getting really good,” he said, beaming around at all of them. “When we get back from the holidays we can start doing some of the big stuff—maybe even Patronuses.” There was a murmur of excitement at that, everyone vastly curious about what forms their individual Patronuses might take, if they succeeded in producing one.

The room began to clear in the usual twos and threes; most people wished Draco, Ron, and Hermione a Happy Christmas as they went. Feeling cheerful, Draco collected up the cushions with the two Gryffindors and stacked them neatly away.

Eventually, it was just the three of them, and then Cho and her friend Marietta left. Ron and Hermione took the Map, going into the Corridor to make sure that the last of the younger DA members did make it toward their respective Houses without being interrupted. Filch and the Inquisitorial Squad had been increasing their patrols, much like the Prefect rounds, as the term wound to a close.

“No, you go on,” Draco heard Cho say to her friend Marietta, and he looked over curiously to see what was holding her up. The sooner they were all safely back in their dorms, the safer it was for everyone in the DA.

As he turned towards Cho, Draco heard a soft sniffling. He looked over and spotted her standing next to the noticeboard on which they had hung the sheet bearing all of their names; by now it had been expanded, and was littered with notes on spellwork, encouraging little quotes and thoughts, and dozens of photos.

Some were of the members of the DA, whether taken since its formation or before. Others were more sentimentally significant; Sirius had mailed Hermione a photo that he’d had of the Order of the Phoenix when it was previously active. Among the people waving out of the faded image were a much younger Sirius, and Lupin, and--Draco had felt surreal when he’d seen them--James and Lily Potter, fresh out of school, newly-wed, and before their son was born.

After a few weeks of the photo hanging in the Room of Requirement, Neville had eventually confided to Ron, Hermione, and Draco, that two of the other strangers in the photo were, in fact, _his_ parents as well. He had quietly revealed that a Death Eater had tortured them for information, and they had withstood it through to the last, eventually losing their minds. They now resided permanently in St. Mungo’s.

It was clear that Neville was proud to see his parents represented in the DA’s training space, and the other three had promised him their discretion with his family secret.

But Cho was not looking at that photo. Her eyes were on some that had been clipped from last year’s newspapers, tracking the events of the Triwizard Tournament. In one, the four Champions stood in their varied school robes, staring back at the camera and looking rather stiff and uncomfortable. In another, which Draco thought he remembered being linked to one of Rita Skeeter’s stupid articles, a candid shot had captured Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter, waiting in the tent for the First Task to begin, both with intense looks of concentration on their painfully young faces.

Draco stared at it over Cho’s shoulder, watching Harry’s youthful face as he frowned into space, before startling at the flash of the camera going off and looking over, as if peering directly out at them from the aged newspaper clipping.

“You okay?” Draco asked Cho softly, coming up beside her. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I’m—sorry,” she said thickly. “I suppose...it’s just...learning all this stuff....It just makes me...wonder whether...if he’d known it all...he’d still be alive....”

Sorrow for the girl in front of him squeezed at Draco’s heart. He knew from rumors that she had had some kind of flirtatious banter going with Harry Potter, too; but it was Diggory who had been her boyfriend, and knowing that he was dead was surely one of the most poignant sources of grief that the sixteen-year-old standing before Draco had ever had to suffer.

“He did know this stuff,” Draco told her gently. “Cedric was incredibly talented, a _very_ clever wizard--or he could never have got to the middle of that maze. And Harry might’ve been just fourteen, but he was smart, too. He made it all the way through the Tournament for a reason, anyway. But if Voldemort really wants to kill you...then you don’t stand a chance.”

Draco glanced at another of the photos, one that he assumed Hermione must have added. It was Harry sitting with her and Ron in the courtyard, a still image--Muggle photography, Draco remembered, possibly something that little Colin Creevey had taken--and Harry was laughing with his best friends, looking alive and untouchable, as if Voldemort’s darkness would never reach him.

Cho had hiccuped at the sound of Voldemort’s name, but she looked back at Draco without flinching. “Harry Potter survived him when he was just a baby,” she pointed out quietly. “You-Know-Who had wanted him dead, hadn’t he?”

“Yes, well,” Draco said wearily, still looking at Harry’s frozen smile, caught forever by the photo, “I don’t know how that happened, nor does anyone else; and it was certainly the exception to the rule, where Voldemort’s concerned.”

“I suppose so,” Cho murmured, sounding tearful again. “I’m really sorry to get all upset like this....I didn’t mean to....to be such a downer.” She hiccuped again. “I know it must be horrible for you,” she said, mopping her eyes on her sleeve again. “Everything that you told us you’ve seen and survived, and having to think back on their deaths, too...”

Draco did not say anything to that; it _was_ all horrible, and it hurt like a physical wound in his chest, but that didn’t need to be said. “You’re a r-really good teacher, you know,” Cho went on, with a watery smile. “I’ve never been able to Stun anything before.”

“Thanks,” Draco said, smiling faintly. “But you’d best get going, Cho, we’ll be past curfew soon. Ron’ll check if the way’s clear.”

Cho nodded, inhaling deeply to try and calm her shuddery breathing. Draco summoned a clean handkerchief, handing it to her, and she mumbled a tearful thank you before turning to head out of the room, where Draco could hear Ron’s low voice speaking to her as she went on her way.

Draco turned away from the board again, figuring it was about his turn to sneak back to his dorms, but he drew up short when he found Hermione standing just a few feet from him. She was watching him with the oddest look on her face--not a negative expression, but rather somehow both contented, and also a little curious.

“What?” he asked, a touch self-consciously. Clearly she had heard his exchange with Cho.

Hermione smiled, her soft brown eyes bright as she looked at him like he was the answer to a question that she’d been wondering for a while. “What you just did for Cho, that was...perfect,” Hermione remarked quietly. “She struggles a lot with all of this--Padma’s told me that between the grief, and worrying about her parents and Umbridge...Cho needs that kind of affirmation. What you said to her, that was good of you.”

She stepped closer, drawing level with him and standing so that their arms were brushing together as she looked at the board as well, her eyes on the smiling photo of Harry. “And it was true, too--what you said about Harry, I know that you’re right,” Hermione went on. “He could be a bit daft about keeping up with his homework, same as Ron, but Harry...he was strong.”

Draco watched her profile as she stared at her deceased best friend. After a moment, Hermione inhaled shakily, then looked back up at his face. They were so close together now that she did not have to raise her voice even to a normal speaking volume for him to hear her. “I’m...I’m really grateful for you, Draco.”

“Can I get that in writing?” he teased.

Hermione giggled, giving him a playful little push. “I’m serious, you prat. I think...I think everything that you’re doing is incredible. You’ve changed so much, and all for the better.” She smirked then. “For example, I’ve noticed you’re letting your hair grow out. You stopped gelling it back in third year, but it’s gotten longer since October.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, reaching up automatically to touch his hair. Growing up the way he did, in the family he had, appearance was everything. He had to look his absolute best, at all times, for one would never know what would happen. Company could drop by, or they’d go somewhere important. But he was surprised to find that, yes, his hair had definitely grown out. It was nearing his shoulders now.

“Huh,” he said. “I actually hadn’t noticed.”

“How did you not notice?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to start tying it back to keep it out of your face eventually.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Believe it or not Granger, I don’t spend all of my time in front of a mirror primping and posing. I also spend time going over my clothes, seeking out to fix any little flaw that may have appeared in the fabric."

“Dear Lord. How does Pansy put up with you?” But the smile on her face was fond, and Draco was happy to know that she and Pansy had bonded some since the first meeting. They had become very fast friends, now that they had a common interest and enemy to fight against, allowing them to drop their own rivalry. “But honestly Draco…You’re incredible, you know that? You’ve survived things that would have broken most people our age. I mean, you had to stand and watch, with your mind shielded, as Voldemort killed a dozen people in your own back garden.”

The very reminder of it had Draco sighing a bit, frowning at nothing. “I wish I could have done something for them.”

“You did do something,” Hermione pointed out firmly. “You survived. You kept under the radar. You brought that information to Dumbledore. Bravery like that…” Her eyes glittered suddenly with mirth. “Almost makes me think you should have ended up in Gryffindor, instead.”

Draco shuddered. “I’ve made it quite clear that my aesthetic is dark and neutral colors only, Granger. Not the garish scarlet and gold. I’d suffer as a Gryffindor.”

Hermione sighed, bemused. “You know you don’t always have to revert to jokes about how good-looking you are to avoid other issues.”

The comment surprised him, causing his stomach to do a very odd twisting motion that made him think of diving on his broom, just letting it drop right out of the air before pulling up again at the last second. But this felt even more exhilarating. Feeling bold for the first time, Draco just grinned, leaning towards her. “You think I’m good-looking?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, as if she hadn’t realized what she’d said before he pointed it out, and a lovely bright pink blush stained her cheeks. “I--that’s not--oh, shut up.”

Draco had to laugh, giving her a smirk. “No, please, go on, I would love to hear about how attractive you find me.”

She gave him another small shove, giggling, her head tipping back as she laughed with such genuine amusement and sweet happiness that it made Draco’s breath catch. Hermione opened her eyes--then paused, blinking, staring at something above them.

He followed her upward gaze, and stilled when he saw that the mistletoe Luna had noticed earlier was still there, now positioned directly above where he and Hermione were standing, only inches apart.

Their gazes met again, and Hermione’s cheeks darkened further, but the look in her eyes seemed more hopeful and wondering than wary. Draco smiled very slightly, tilting his head to indicate his intention clearly as he leaned forward, watching as Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed in anticipation.

His lips had only just barely brushed against hers when Ron’s voice drifted back into the Room from the corridor, calling Hermione’s name. Draco and Hermione pulled apart at once just as Ron re-entered the Room of Requirement.

“Coast’s clear for now,” he reported, holding the Map out to Draco, who took it without looking at the redhead. He did not want to feel angry at that moment, but the interruption could not have come at a worse possible moment, and there was some resentment towards Ron that he couldn’t quite brush off as the Gryffindor looked at Hermione expectantly. “You ready to scarper?” His eyebrows drew together. “‘Mione, why’re you blushing?”

“I’m not,” she said at once, brushing him off with a little wave. “Come on, best hurry, we’re still ahead of curfew.” She shot Draco one more look, when turned to grab her cloak and head out, with Ron following her. Draco took up the rear, sighing quietly, and in the corridor he turned the opposite direction away from them to start walking back downstairs towards the dungeons.

* * *

_Dear Draco,_

_There’s been a change of plans, I haven’t been able to go skiing with my family. My parents are disappointed, but I told them that really dedicated students who wish to pass their O.W.Ls are staying behind to take advantage of the silence to study more, and they want me to do my best so they didn’t question it. In reality, though, I’m staying with the Weasleys. The Order thought I’d be in danger if I went on holiday undefended._

_I’m afraid I can’t tell you where I am, due to the Fidelius Charm. This letter is coded so that no one but you can read it--I asked Tonks to help me with that--but better safe than sorry. I can tell you that I’m staying with Sirius as well, and he says that he can’t wait to properly meet you. I’ve told him quite a bit about you and how far you’ve come, and he says that your aunt Andromeda, Tonks’ mother, would be proud. Apparently, he says, the two of you are a lot alike._

_I do hope you’re doing well. I know you can’t risk sending any letters back, in case any of the Inquisitorial Squad wants to see who you’re writing to. But if you can, please check on Hedwig. She’s been flying back and forth lately, I think she misses Harry. I know we all do. It’s...difficult this year, celebrating the hols without him. His Muggle relatives were awful, you see, very neglectful and abusive, and we used to try and make up for it by making sure he got the best gifts we could give him, for Christmas. He was always very grateful for that._

_I’ve got a present for you too, by the way. I’ll make sure to give it to you once the break is over and we get a chance to see each other again without anyone breathing down our necks. Until then, stay safe._

_Yours, Hermione_

Draco stared at the letter in his hands, sitting on the leather chair nearest the fireplace in the Slytherin common room. It was always a muffled, quiet place, being under the Black Lake, so many others might find it unnerving, but it was home. And the letter was comforting, knowing that his friends were safe for the time being, even if the comment about Harry and his relatives was a bit...odd.

Were they true, he wondered? Draco had known that Harry had spent as many holidays out of the Muggle world as possible, even going so far as to go spend them with the Weasleys, and he had always looked so depressed when the summer holidays rolled around. Had Harry really been in an abusive situation? And Dumbledore, he had said that the Muggles had “taken it in stride” when informed of Harry’s death, indicating that they hadn’t cared in some form or another. Had he known?

And Draco… He had made things worse. The insinuation about Harry’s relatives had bled into gossip as early as their first year, and Draco had mocked Harry about the rumors, not believing that they were true. If Hermione’s words were anything to go by…

Looked like he would always have some guilt in his heart, one way or another, where it concerned Harry Potter, and the four years of misery he was subjected to whenever Draco went to rile him up. It had been funny back then. It was just pathetic and cruel now looking back on it.

 _I wanted to be his friend,_ Draco thought, tracing his hand over the letter with some regret. _I truly did. I didn’t care where he came from the first time we met. And I didn’t care at the time what or who he would turn out to be. Stupid schoolboy pride, always ruining things._ He could only hope, if an afterlife existed, that Harry was in a better place.

As he moved to burn the letter in the fireplace, as was expected of him, due to the whole “spy” business, Draco hesitated. He wasn’t sure why, but he held tight to the letter for a long moment before bringing it back to his lap, folding the bottom section carefully and ripping the parchment at the crease. Once he had Hermione’s signature folded carefully and in his shirt pocket, he tossed the rest of the letter into the fire, watching the parchment burn away.

With the majority of the students absent over the holiday, the Great Hall seemed substantially larger, and was quite significantly more quiet during mealtimes. Almost all of Slytherin had returned home; aside from Draco, Pansy, and Theo, there were very few others who remained, and none that Draco knew particularly well.

But rather than causing any feeling of loneliness, it was more peaceful than it had felt the entire year thus far.

He did act on what he had told his mother as a reason to remain, taking advantage of the empty library to study with the other two for most of the day. They took intermittent breaks to get fresh air, and occasionally went out to fly laps around the Quidditch pitch--Draco still had his Nimbus 2001, even if he did not play anymore. It was too cold to be outside long, of course, but they were nice interludes between studying, and fretting.

Draco wanted desperately to write back to Hermione, anything--but he knew that she’d been right. It was not a risk he could take, not with Umbridge stalking everyone in the school for anti-Ministry behaviors.

At dinner, only a few days into the holiday, Draco was startled when a note materialized beside his plate. It made his heart leap momentarily, wondering if somehow Hermione had sent something from however many hundreds of miles away that she was--but it was not her handwriting. Draco unfolded it, finding instead that the message was from Professor Dumbledore.

_Draco,_

_As you have made the wise decision to remain at Hogwarts, I would encourage you to take particular advantage of the quiet, and the lapse in schoolwork. I know that you have had Occlumency lessons in your life; Severus told me that it was your mother’s wish for you to be proficient in that regard. He has made time in the evenings to continue providing you with lessons two to three nights a week during this break, to ensure that you have it mastered. Please go to his office at 7 this evening to begin._

_Warm regards,_

_~A.D._

The letters erased themselves once he finished reading them, and Draco slid the now-blank parchment into his pocket. “Change of study plans for tonight,” he murmured, and Theo and Pansy both looked at him quizzically. “Dumbledore wants me to do Occlumency lessons with Severus.”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose. “That’s brilliant. I mean, I know you’re already great at it, but it can only help--and it isn’t even suspicious, from, y’know--” Her voice lowered. “I mean, the Dark Lord would just assume Snape’s helping you for his sake.”

Draco nodded, resuming his meal. She was absolutely right, and he was sure that Dumbledore had thought of that angle, too.

He arrived at Snape’s office at five-to-seven, knocking lightly, and smiling at his godfather when he called for Draco to enter. “This was smart. I’m fairly advanced at it already, but there’s really no such thing as too much practice, right?”

Professor Snape nodded, setting aside what he had been working on and coming around his desk to face Draco. “Indeed. And while it would be feasible to think that, were your loyalties...elsewhere, than where they are, there would be minimal danger of Professor Dumbledore ever looking into your mind in the given circumstances, the opposite is not guaranteed. The Dark Lord may not view you as any sort of threat to his plans, as things are, but it is in our best interest to ensure that he never does.”

“‘Given circumstances’?” Draco asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that as far as the Dark Lord is aware, Professor Dumbledore remains ignorant of his return,” Snape clarified, his mouth twisting. “He believes our Headmaster to be still in the dark even regarding the fates of Diggory and Potter.”

Draco swallowed, his eyes dropping. “I hate that--that they didn’t get proper funerals.”

His godfather sighed quietly. “Someday, they will be given that. But for now...”

Snape drew his wand from inside of his robes, and Draco drew a deep breath, readying himself for the process. He waited as his godfather raised his wand to his temple, placing the tip against his skin and withdrawing the silvery streaks that Draco recognized as memories. He had seen his parents do similarly; like them, Professor Snape places the gossamer strands into a Pensieve, where it swirled beautiful and white, neither gas nor liquid. Snape did this two more times, then put the Pensieve aside.

He turned back to Draco then, giving his godson a nod. “Take out your wand, Draco; let’s begin.”

They faced one another across the desk. “You know the procedure,” Snape reminded him. “Use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or defend yourself in any manner you think of. I will attempt to enter your mind.” He waited until Draco nodded, then raised his wand. “Legilimens!”

Despite his existing practice with the art of Occlumency, Draco realized at once that Dumbledore had been correct to request more training. Whether Narcissa was simply less skilled at it than Severus was, or whether she had just never gone full-strength with her son as she’d tutored him--it was completely different, and despite his immediate attempt to barricade his mind as he was used to doing, Professor Snape’s office swam before his eyes and then vanished, leaving memories racing through his mind so fast that they nearly blurred together.

He was three years old, sitting on his mother’s knee, watching her as she pinned her hair back, humming a soft song under her breath--He was five, and Lucius had gotten him a toy broomstick, and he was racing through the Malfoy gardens while Dobby looked on in anxious excitement, trying to get him to not go so fast--He was seven and he was at Pansy’s house, playing hide and seek, grabbing her from behind after sneaking up on her and listening to her laughter--He was eleven, standing in Madam Malkin’s shop, meeting Harry Potter for the first time without even realizing who he was--He was thirteen--God, what a year--and his mocking words about Hagrid had Hermione punching him so hard in the nose it was a wonder she didn’t break it--He was fourteen, at the Yule Ball, with Pansy on his arm, staring almost starstruck as Hermione descended the stairs in her pretty blue dress, all shining bright eyes and excited smiles, God she had looked so happy--

He felt a sharp pain in his knee. Professor Snape’s office came back into view, and Draco realized that he had fallen to the floor; one of his knees had collided painfully with the leg of Snape’s desk. He looked up at his godfather, who had lowered his wand and was rubbing his wrist. There was an angry weal there, like a scorch mark.

“Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?” Snape asked him, looking both impressed and concerned.

“No,” Draco said, getting up from the floor and rubbing his knee. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, it was a defense, if a belated one,” Snape said dryly, healing the welt on his arm with a tap of his wand. “You did manage to stop me, though you wasted time and energy lost in the memories. You must remain focused--the minute you see your surroundings being affected by someone’s attempt to invade your thoughts, you must act then. Nostalgia can wait. Now...clear your mind. Let go of all your emotions...Let’s go again...on the count of three...one—two—three—Legilimens!”

Hermione was smiling at Draco, not a trace left of the long-ago hostility and fear that had so often plagued their relationship for the first four years at Hogwarts....the DA lessons, with everyone improving so rapidly, and Hermione beaming at him each time she mastered the task at hand...the mistletoe unfurling itself above their heads, and Hermione’s eyes fluttering closed when Draco had leaned in towards her...

 _No_ , Draco thought distantly, as the memory of Hermione drew nearer, and he could almost feel the warmth of her lips when they had touched his-- _I don’t want to share that_ , _it’s private_ —

He returned to the present, panting as he grabbed the edge of the desk. It was impossible that his godfather had not seen it--whether he would remark on the memory or not, Draco did not know. He raised his eyes to Severus’, wary and waiting for his reaction.

Professor Snape looked as if he was conflicted over something, staring back at Draco as intently as if he could re-access the teenager’s mind without the use of the spell.

“I want you back here same time on Wednesday, and we will continue to work then,” he told Draco quietly. “You are to rid your mind of all emotions, every night before you sleep—empty it completely, make it blank and calm, do you understand?”

Draco nodded, swallowing. “Yes, of course.”

Thinking that that was it--that Severus was not going to comment--Draco composed himself, pocketing his wand and starting to turn back towards the door, ready to leave, when his godfather spoke again behind him.

“That final recollection, Draco...”

He sighed, pausing with his hand on the ornate door handle, and looked back. “What of it?”

Severus was looking at him as if he was seeing something new in his godson, something unfamiliar. Draco raised his eyebrows, waiting; perhaps Severus was going to tell him that he needed to stop it from continuing, to distance himself from Hermione. To not let his feelings deepen, and certainly not to allow anything similar to that precious moment beneath the mistletoe to occur again.

Professor Snape sighed quietly, setting his wand down on his desk. “I’ve made some terrible mistakes in my lifetime, Draco,” he said softly, dark eyes meeting pale gray. Draco stilled, surprised by the depth of pain that he suddenly glimpsed, flickering behind the normally stoic and calm gaze of this man, who he had grown up knowing to be steady, almost unshakeable. “I made wrong choices, and people who I....loved...paid the price for them.”

He looked away, breaking their eye contact, and began tidying up his desk. “Be cautious, Draco. Watch your steps very carefully. If you truly care for Miss Granger....do not let her drift too far from your sights.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy almost-smooches, too. :D


	9. Never Give In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Do not lose hope, and do not stop fighting.'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I know that some of the chapters feel a bit canon-content-heavy; that is going to stop happening very soon, we promise. Year 5 was one where Draco could replace Harry in a lot of situations, but years 6 and 7 will be vastly different, with him as our hero.
> 
> -You should see us at work, it is incredible. We've got chapters prepped for weeks. :D
> 
> -Please consider commenting, either with thoughts and feedback, or just to say "keep going!" It helps immensely. <3

As Draco came down from the dorms one early morning, he found a brand new notice on the board in the common room, looking very important. Wandering closer, he took a quick peek at it, before pausing, making his brain wake up further, and then giving the paper his full attention.

**CAREER ADVICE**

**All fifth years will be required to attend a short meeting with their Head of House during the first week of Summer term, in which they will be given the opportunity to discuss their future careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below.**

_Huh_ , Draco thought to himself, almost surprised. He had forgotten for a brief time that he would be expected to talk about this. But this is what the O.W.Ls were for, after all. Top marks meant getting into the N.E.W.Ts level classes; and top marks in N.E.W.Ts meant a guarantee at getting the kind of career you wanted.

Coming from two very old, very powerful pureblooded elite families meant that Draco did not have to have a career at all, if he didn’t want one. They had acclimated so much wealth over the past centuries that it just almost felt silly, to think of having a career. The only reason Lucius had his job as part of the Hogwarts school board for a few years was because he wanted to make sure Draco was being “taught correctly.”

But, if he was going to be honest with himself, as he checked the list and found that he was scheduled to meet with Severus at half-past-one on the following Tuesday afternoon, he did actually have a career in mind. Already he could envision lime green robes and the soothing aura of St. Mungo’s. After a rather scary medical crisis as a child, he had been enraptured by the atmosphere of the magical hospital, and he had always been rather inclined towards Healing magic. A Healer’s career sounded like something he would enjoy doing very much.

On Tuesday, right after lunch, Draco headed down the dungeons to the Potions’ classroom, where he found Severus already waiting, going over leaflets and records, while Umbridge sat to the side, her squat little body planted firmly on a chair. She gave him the widest, sweetest smile, and Draco nearly vomited at the sight of it, but he managed to keep it all down. Ugh, why did she have to be here?

“Sit down, Mr. Malfoy,” Severus intoned formally, and Draco obeyed, taking the seat across from his godfather’s desk, and watching as he pulled out Draco’s school records and reports. “As you know, this meeting is for us to discuss the possibility of you getting a career after your Hogwarts graduation. To do that, you need to know what classes you’ll need to take to achieve such a thing, and what kind of marks they’re looking for when concerning your O.W.Ls. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Draco replied promptly.

“Good.” Severus looked to him then, his nearly black eyes intense. “Now, have you given some thoughts about a career?

“I have, sir,” Draco said, shifting slightly in his chair and trying to ignore Umbridge’s quill scratching on her parchment and clipboard. “I want to go into the Healers.”

There was a pause in the scratching.

“A noble choice,” Severus replied, a very faint but approving smile appearing on his face. Reaching for one of the pamphlets, he unfolded it, glancing at it for a moment. “The Healers do require strong magic and strong stomachs. You will need to achieve an E in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and no lower. Due to your marks in your previous years--”

“ _Hem, hem_.”

It was a wonder Draco didn’t immediately throw something at Umbridge for her interruption, and Severus’ nostrils flared slightly in his own annoyance, before he glanced at her as if she were nothing more than a very boring looking cauldron. “What may I help you with, Professor?”

“I was just wondering if I could give some advice myself,” Umbridge said, giving another smile. Draco briefly imagined throwing a rock into her mouth and knocking some of her teeth loose, that would really make her look like a toad.

“Seeing as you are not Mr. Malfoy’s Head of House,” Severus began, slightly testily.

“Oh, no, Professor, I just thought…” Her eyes cut to Draco then. “Well, Mr. Malfoy, as you are aware, I’ve known your father for a very long time now. He’s a knowledgeable person, and ever so generous, and he knows his way around the Ministry like a well-oiled machine. I just thought that, as his son, you might want to pursue something similar? I could certainly pull some strings, get you into a wonderful department very quickly, your skills could be put to much better use--”

“With all due respect, Professor,” Draco said, “I’ve wanted to join the Healers since I was nine years old. I’ve been keeping myself at high marks since my first year with that goal in mind.”

“Well yes, but just in case it doesn’t go as planned,” Umbridge pressed on, almost simpering, “do consider it, my dear. The Ministry could use you to your own advantage.”

“No thank you,” Draco said, his voice getting a bit cooler. “I want to do some good in the world.”

There was silence for a long moment, Umbridge and Severus both staring at him with very different expressions. Severus looked proud, though not openly, and Umbridge gaped at him for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure what he had just said. But, eventually, she scribbled a few more things down on her paper. “Ah--very well, then Mr. Malfoy… I’m sure we would miss your talents. If you ever change your mind, just let me know, and I’ll get you the best position the Ministry can offer.”

Draco could only sit there and decide that he would rather be boiled alive then ever be caught dead working for the Ministry of Magic.

*** * ***

If it had not been for the DA lessons, Draco would have been extremely unhappy. He sometimes felt that he was living for the hours he spent in the Room of Requirement, working hard but thoroughly enjoying himself at the same time, swelling with pride as he looked around at his fellow DA members and saw how far they had come. Indeed, Draco sometimes wondered how Umbridge was going to react when all the members of the DA received “Outstanding” in their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s.

They had finally started work on Patronuses, which everybody had been very keen to practice; though as Draco kept reminding them, producing a Patronus in the middle of a brightly lit classroom when they were not under threat was very different to producing it when confronted by something like a dementor.

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy,” Cho teased him, laughing as she watched her silvery swan-shaped Patronus soar around the Room of Requirement, during their last lesson before Easter. “They’re so pretty!”

“They’re not supposed to be pretty, they’re supposed to protect you,” Draco reiterated patiently. “I wonder how Potter managed to conjure his the first time…Maybe we could use his method.”

“Harry said Lupin got a boggart,” Hermione answered, helping Ron with the wand movement of the spell, “and it would take the shape of a Dementor when it was released, because that was Harry’s biggest fear. The few non-corporeal Patronuses he conjured during those lessons were able to work against the boggart just like it would a real Dementor.”

“But that would be really scary!” Lavender protested, who was also only shooting puffs of silver vapor out of the end of her wand. “And I still—can’t—do it!” she added, frustrated.

Neville was having trouble too. His face was screwed up in concentration, but only feeble wisps of silver smoke issued from his wand tip. “You’ve got to think of something happy,” Draco reminded him.

“I’m trying,” Neville said miserably, who appeared to be trying so hard that his round face was actually shining with sweat.

“Hey, I think I’m doing it!” Seamus yelled happily, who had been brought along to his first ever DA meeting by Dean. “Look—ah—it’s gone....But it was definitely something hairy, Draco!”

Hermione’s Patronus appeared, a shining silver otter, and it went gamboling around her as if it were swimming through the air. “They are sort of nice, aren’t they?” she mused, looking at it fondly as it circled her head, chittering soundlessly.

The door of the Room of Requirement opened and then closed again; Draco looked around to see who had entered, but there did not seem to be anybody there. It was a few moments before he realized that the people close to the door had fallen silent. Next thing he knew, something was tugging at his robes somewhere near the knee.

He looked down and saw, to his great astonishment, Dobby the house-elf peering up at him from beneath his usual eight hats. “Hi, Dobby!” he said, pleased and confused. “What are you—wait, what’s wrong?”

The elf’s eyes were wide with terror, and he was shaking from hat-covered head to sock-hidden toes. The members of the DA closest to them had fallen silent now, too: Everybody in the room was watching Dobby. The few Patronuses people had managed to conjure faded away into silver mist, leaving the room looking and feeling much darker than before.

“Draco Malfoy, sir...” Dobby squeaked, trembling so violently that his voice cracked a little, “Draco Malfoy, sir...Dobby has come to warn you...but the house-elves have been warned not to tell...”

He ran headfirst at the wall: Draco, who knew all too well about Dobby’s habits of self-punishment, made to seize him, but Dobby merely bounced off the stone, cushioned by his eight hats. Hermione and a few of the other girls let out gasps of fear and sympathy.

“What’s happened, Dobby?” Draco asked, grabbing the elf ’s tiny arm and holding him away from anything with which he might seek to hurt himself.

“Draco Malfoy...she...she...”

Dobby hit himself hard on the nose with his free fist: Draco seized that too. His voice lowered. “Who’s ‘she,’ Dobby?”

But he already knew—surely only one “she” could induce such fear in Dobby? The elf looked up at him, slightly cross-eyed, and mouthed wordlessly. “Umbridge?” asked Draco, horrified. Dobby nodded, then tried to bang his head off Draco’s knees; Draco continued to hold him at bay. “What about her? Dobby—she hasn’t found out about this—about us—about the DA?”

He read the answer in the elf’s stricken face. His hands held fast by Draco, the elf tried to kick himself and fell to the floor. “Is she coming?” Draco asked, deathly quiet.

Dobby let out a howl, and began beating his bare feet hard on the floor. “Yes, Draco Malfoy, yes!”

Draco straightened up and looked around at the motionless, terrified people gazing at the thrashing elf. “What are you waiting for?” he cried. “ _Run_!”

Immediately, they all pelted toward the exit at once, forming a scrum at the door, then people finally began bursting through; Draco could hear them sprinting along the corridors and hoped they had the sense not to try and make it all the way to their dormitories. It was only ten to nine, if they just took refuge in the library or the Owlery, both of which were nearer—

“Hermione, come on!” Ron cried from the center of the knot of people now fighting to get out. Only then did Draco see that rather than running for the door with the others, Hermione had bolted to the noticeboard on the wall, and had yanked down the membership roster.

Draco scooped up Dobby, who was still attempting to do himself serious injury, and ran with the elf in his arms to join the back of the queue. “Dobby—this is an order—get back down to the kitchen with the other elves, and if she asks you whether you warned me, lie and say no!” Draco gasped out. “And I forbid you to hurt yourself!” he added fiercely, dropping the elf as he made it over the threshold at last, slamming the door behind him.

“Thank you, Draco Malfoy!” squeaked Dobby, and he streaked off.

Draco glanced left and right; the others were all moving so fast that he caught only glimpses of flying heels at either end of the corridor before they vanished. He started to run right; there was a boys’ bathroom up ahead, he could pretend he’d been in there all the time if he could just reach it—

Pansy collided with him, shoving both his Prefect and Inquisitorial Squad badges into his hands before Draco had fully even registered that it was her. “Put them on,” she hissed. “I tried, I sent Dobby to warn you, I’m sorry--c’mon, pretend we were on Prefect hall monitoring duty--”

“Hey, Professor—Professor! I’ve got one!” Draco and Pansy spun in place, eyes widening as they spotted Crabbe lumbering around the corridor corner, dragging Hermione by the arm. Draco’s stomach twisted itself into knots, horrified to see that she had not managed to escape.

Umbridge came bustling around the opposite corner, breathless but wearing a delighted smile. “It’s her!” she said jubilantly at the sight of Hermione, who was thrashing futilely against Crabbe’s hold. “Excellent, Vincent, excellent, oh, very good—fifty points to Slytherin! Your father will certainly hear about this...I’ll take her from here....Stop struggling, Miss Granger!”

Hermione was shaking, glaring at the pair of them. Draco had never seen Umbridge looking so happy. She seized Hermione’s arm in a vice-like grip and turned, beaming broadly, to Crabbe. “You hop along and see if you can round up anymore of them, Vincent,” she said. “Tell the others to look in the library—anybody out of breath—check the bathrooms, Miss Parkinson can do the girls’ ones—off you go—and you,” she added in her softest, most dangerous voice, as Crabbe walked away with a tight-lipped Pansy in tow. “You can come with me to the Headmaster’s office, Granger. Draco, dear, hold her for me, I’m glad Pansy found you.”

They were at the stone gargoyle within minutes, Draco’s fingers as loose as he could keep them on Hermione’s arm as she kept pace with him. With Umbidge’s back turned to them as she led the way, Hermione put her other hand up, fingers closing over his hand where he held her, and giving it a quick squeeze. Draco wasn’t sure if she was trying to comfort him or herself more, but either way, it helped a very tiny amount.

He wondered how many of the others had been caught. He thought of Ron—Mrs. Weasley would kill him—and of how Hermione would feel if she was expelled before she could take her O.W.L.s. And it had been Seamus’s very first meeting...and Neville had been getting so good....

“Fizzing Whizbee,” sang Umbridge; the stone gargoyle jumped aside, the wall behind split open, and they ascended the moving stone staircase. They reached the polished door with the griffin knocker, but Umbridge did not bother to knock. She strode straight inside, beckoning for Draco to follow with Hermione.

The office was full of people. Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, his expression serene, the tips of his long fingers together. Professor McGonagall stood rigidly beside him, her face extremely tense. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, was rocking backward and forward on his toes beside the fire, apparently immensely pleased with the whole situation. There were two Aurors positioned on either side of the door like guards, and the freckled, bespectacled form of Percy Weasley hovered excitedly beside the wall, a quill and a heavy scroll of parchment in his hands, apparently poised to take notes.

The portraits of old headmasters and mistresses were not pretending to sleep tonight. All of them were watching what was happening below, alert and serious. As Draco and Hermione entered, a few flitted into neighboring frames and whispered urgently into their neighbors’ ears.

Hermione held herself upright and proud as the door swung shut behind them. Cornelius Fudge was glaring at her with a kind of vicious satisfaction upon his face. “Well,” he said. “Well, well, well...” Hermione just replied with the dirtiest look she could muster. Draco’s heart drummed madly inside him, but his brain felt oddly cool and clear, adrenaline kicking in.

Then the Minister’s eyes fell onto Draco, and his smile became a bit more kind. “Ah yes, I thought I would see you eventually, Draco. Your father has been telling me all about your extracurriculars as one of the top Squad members for Dolores here. She claims you have a lot of potential!”

It took every ounce of effort and self control and training for Draco to not immediately scream the curse words that were on the tip of his tongue. A fool, that was all that Fudge was, and he always had been; even Lucius had seen that, manipulating the man and getting him all wrapped around Lucius’ conniving fingers. The perfect political puppet.

But Draco had to swallow down the rising bile in his throat, and he offered Fudge a smile. It made his face hurt, but it seemed to be genuine enough to please the other man. “You’re too kind, Minister. Just making my parents proud.”

“Smart boy. You’ll go far.” Fudge looked to Hermione again then, his eyes at once turning colder than before. “Now, as to the issue at hand.”

“She was heading back to Gryffindor Tower,” Umbridge said. There was an indecent excitement in her voice, the same callous pleasure that Draco had heard as she watched Professor Trelawney dissolving with misery in the entrance hall. “The Crabbe boy cornered him.”

“He did, did he?” Fudge murmured appreciatively. “Good, very good. Well, Miss Granger...I expect you know why you are here?”

Hermione had opened her mouth, the look on her face suggesting that she was prepared to fling back a defiant “yes;”the word was half-formed when her eyes darted to Dumbledore.

Draco risked a peek, as well; Dumbledore was not looking directly at Hermione; his eyes were fixed upon a point just over her shoulder, but as Hermione looked to him, he shook his head a fraction of an inch to each side. Hermione changed direction mid-word. “Ye—no.”

“I beg your pardon?” Fudge stuttered, thrown off by the unexpected response.

“No,” Hermione repeated, more firmly.

“You don’t know why you are here?”

“No, I don’t.”

Fudge looked incredulously from Hermione to Professor Umbridge; Hermione and Draco both took advantage of his momentary inattention to steal another quick look at Dumbledore, who gave the carpet the tiniest of nods and the shadow of a wink.

“So you have no idea,” Fudge said, in a voice positively sagging with sarcasm, “why Professor Umbridge has brought you to this office? You are not aware that you have broken any school rules?”

“School rules?” Hermione echoed blandly. “No.”

“Or Ministry decrees?” amended Fudge angrily.

“Not that I’m aware of,” she replied, still calmly.

Draco’s heart was now pounding. It was almost worth her telling these lies to watch Fudge’s blood pressure rising, but he could not see how on earth he would get away with them. If somebody had tipped off Umbridge about the DA, then Hermione, the only leader they would be aware of for the group, might as well be packing her trunk right now.

“So it’s news to you, is it,” Fudge asked sharply, his voice now thick with anger, “that an illegal student organization has been discovered within this school?”

“Yes, it is,” Hermione said, hoisting an unconvincing look of innocent surprise onto her face.

“I think, Minister,” Umbridge interrupted silkily from beside him, “we might make better progress if I fetch our informant.”

“Yes, yes, do,” Fudge agreed, nodding, and he glanced maliciously at Dumbledore as Umbridge left the room. “There’s nothing like a good witness, is there, Dumbledore?”

“Nothing at all, Cornelius,” Dumbledore confirmed gravely, inclining his head. There was a wait of several minutes, in which nobody looked at each other, and then Draco heard the door open behind them.

Umbridge moved past him into the room, gripping by the shoulder Cho’s curly-haired friend Marietta, who was hiding her face in her hands. “Don’t be scared, dear, don’t be frightened,” Professor Umbridge said softly, patting her on the back in what she likely thought to be a soothing manner. “It’s quite alright, now. You have done the right thing. The Minister is very pleased with you. He’ll be telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been. Marietta’s mother, Minister,” she added, looking up at Fudge, “is Madam Edgecombe from the Department of Magical Transportation. Floo Network office—she’s been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know.”

“Jolly good, jolly good!” said Fudge heartily. “Like mother, like daughter, eh? Well, come on, now, dear, look up, don’t be shy, let’s hear what you’ve got to—galloping gargoyles!”

As Marietta raised her head, Fudge leapt backward in shock, nearly landing himself in the fire. He cursed and stamped on the hem of his cloak, which had started to smoke, and Marietta gave a wail and pulled the neck of her robes right up to her eyes, but not before the whole room had seen that her face was horribly disfigured by a series of close-set purple pustules that had spread across her nose and cheeks to form the word “SNEAK.”

“Never mind the spots now, dear,” Umbridge said impatiently, “just take your robes away from your mouth and tell the Minister—” But Marietta gave another muffled wail and shook her head frantically. “Oh, very well, you silly girl, I’ll tell him,” Umbridge snapped.

She hitched her sickly smile back onto her face and went on, “Well, Minister, Miss Edgecombe here came to my office shortly after dinner this evening and told me she had something she wanted to tell me. She said that if I proceeded to a secret room on the seventh floor, sometimes known as the Room of Requirement, I would find out something to my advantage. I questioned her a little further and she admitted that there was to be some kind of meeting there. Unfortunately at that point this hex,” she waved impatiently at Marietta’s concealed face, “came into operation and upon catching sight of her face in my mirror the girl became too distressed to tell me any more.”

“Well, now,” Fudge said, fixing Marietta with what he evidently imagined was a kind and fatherly look. “It is very brave of you, my dear, coming to tell Professor Umbridge, you did exactly the right thing. Now, will you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was its purpose? Who was there?”

But Marietta would not speak. She merely shook her head again, her eyes wide and fearful. “Haven’t we got a counterjinx for this?” Fudge asked Umbridge impatiently, gesturing at Marietta’s face. “So she can speak freely?”

“I have not yet managed to find one,” Umbridge admitted grudgingly, and Draco felt a surge of pride in Hermione’s jinxing ability. “But it doesn’t matter if she won’t speak, I can take up the story from here. You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report back in October that Granger had met a number of fellow students in the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade—”

“And what is your evidence for that?” Professor McGonagall cut in, voice hard.

“I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva, who happened to enter the pub at the time. He was heavily bandaged, it is true, but his hearing was quite unimpaired,” Umbridge retorted smugly. “He heard the majority of what Granger said, and hastened straight to the school to report to me before they realized they’d been overheard—”

“Oh, so that’s why he wasn’t prosecuted for setting up all those regurgitating toilets!” Professor McGonagall declared, raising her eyebrows. “What an interesting insight into our justice system!”

“Blatant corruption!” roared the portrait of a rather large, red-nosed wizard on the wall behind Dumbledore’s desk. “The Ministry did not cut deals with petty criminals in my day, no sir, they did not!”

“Thank you, Fortescue, that will do,” Dumbledore said softly. Draco was cringing inwardly; so they _had_ been overheard, having their meeting in the Hog’s Head...it was a small miracle, then, that this Widdershins person had somehow failed to notice that Draco had been there as well, or he would surely have reported Draco’s betrayal to Umbridge...

“The purpose of Granger’s meeting with these students,” continued Professor Umbridge, “was to persuade them to join an illegal society, whose aim was to learn spells and curses the Ministry has decided are inappropriate for school-age—”

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong there, Dolores,” Dumbledore interrupted her quietly, peering at her over the half-moon spectacles perched halfway down his crooked nose.

Draco and Hermione both stared at him. Draco could not see how Dumbledore was going to talk him out of this one; if Widdershins had indeed heard even half of what Hermione said in the Hog’s Head, then there was simply no escaping it.

“Oho!” Fudge cried with ugly glee, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet again. “Yes, do go on, let's hear the latest cock-and-bull story designed to pull yourself out of trouble! Go on, then, Dumbledore, go on—Willy Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Granger’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day?”

Percy Weasley let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, very good, Minister, very good!” Hermione shot him a disgusted look, and Draco, too, felt repulsed by the older Weasley’s sycophantic idiocy. Ron had told Draco that his parents struggled with their third oldest son’s absence; if they could see him right then, Draco doubted even Mrs. Weasley would be feeling fond of Percy.

Then he saw, to his astonishment, that Dumbledore was merely smiling benignly back at the Minister. “Cornelius, I do not deny—and nor, I am sure, does Miss Granger—that she was in the Hog’s Head that day, nor that she was trying to recruit students to a Defense Against the Dark Arts group. I am merely pointing out that Dolores is quite wrong to suggest that such a group was, at that time, illegal. If you remember, the Ministry decree banning all student societies was not put into effect until two days after this Hogsmeade meeting occurred, so Miss Granger was not breaking any rules in the Hog’s Head at all.”

Percy looked as though he had been struck in the face by something very heavy. Fudge had gone motionless in mid-bounce, his mouth hanging open.

Umbridge recovered first. “That’s all very fine, Headmaster,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But we are now nearly six months on from the introduction of Educational Decree Number Twenty-four. If the first meeting was not illegal, all those that have happened since most certainly are.”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, surveying her with polite interest over the top of his interlocked fingers, “they certainly would be, if they had continued after the decree came into effect. Do you have any evidence that these meetings continued?”

As Dumbledore spoke, Draco heard a rustle behind him; it sounded as if one of the Aurors by the door had whispered something. Draco could have sworn, too, that he felt something brush against his side, a gentle something like a draft or bird wings, but looking down he saw nothing there.

“Evidence?” Umbridge repeated, with that horrible wide toadlike smile. “Have you not been listening, Dumbledore? Why do you think Miss Edgecombe is here?”

“Oh, can she tell us about six months’ worth of meetings?” Dumbledore asked, raising his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. “I was under the impression that she was merely reporting a meeting tonight.”

“Miss Edgecombe,” Umbridge said at once, turning on Marietta. “Tell us how long these meetings have been going on, dear. You can simply nod or shake your head, I’m sure that won’t make the spots worse. Have they been happening regularly over the last six months?”

Draco felt a horrible plummeting in his stomach. This was it, they had hit a dead end of solid evidence that not even Dumbledore would be able to shift aside. And Marietta would no doubt expose his participation, as well.

“Just nod or shake your head, dear,” Umbridge coaxed Marietta. “Come on, now, that won’t activate the jinx further....” Everyone in the room was gazing at the top of Marietta’s face. Only her eyes were visible between the pulled up robes and her curly fringe. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but Draco thought that her eyes looked oddly blank, too.

And then—to everyone’s utter amazement—Marietta shook her head. Umbridge looked quickly at Fudge and then back at Marietta. “I don’t think you understood the question, did you, dear? I’m asking whether you’ve been going to these meetings for the past six months? You have, haven’t you?” Again, Marietta shook her head. “What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?” Umbridge asked in a testy voice.

“I would have thought her meaning was quite clear,” Professor McGonagall snapped. “There have been no secret meetings for the past six months. Is that correct, Miss Edgecombe?”

Marietta nodded.

“But there was a meeting tonight!” Umbridge cried furiously. “There was a meeting, Miss Edgecombe, you told me about it, in the Room of Requirement! And Granger was the leader, was he not, Granger organized it, Granger—why are you shaking your head, girl?”

“Well, usually when a person shakes their head,” McGonagall cut in again coldly, “they mean ‘no.’ So unless Miss Edgecombe is using a form of sign language as yet unknown to humans—”

Professor Umbridge seized Marietta, pulled her around to face her, and began shaking her very hard. A split second later Dumbledore was on his feet, his wand raised. The taller, dark-skinned Auror at the door started forward as well, and Umbridge leapt back from Marietta, waving her hands in the air as though they had been burned.

“I cannot allow you to manhandle my students, Dolores,” said Dumbledore. For the first time, he looked angry, and it was rather alarming to behold the spark of authoritative rage that gleamed in his steely blue gaze.

“You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge,” the taller Auror agreed, in a low rumbling voice. “You don’t want to get yourself into trouble, now.”

“No,” Umbridge said breathlessly, glancing up at the towering figure of the Auror. “I mean, yes—you’re right, Shacklebolt—I—I forgot myself.”

Marietta was standing exactly where Umbridge had released her. She seemed neither perturbed by Umbridge’s sudden attack, nor relieved by her release. She was still clutching her robe up to her oddly blank eyes, staring straight ahead of her. A sudden suspicion connected to Shacklebolt’s whisper, and the thing he had felt shoot past him, sprang into Draco’s mind.

“Dolores,” Fudge spluttered, with the air of trying to settle something once and for all. “The meeting tonight—the one we know definitely happened—”

“Yes,” Umbridge murmured, pulling herself together again. “Yes...well, Miss Edgecombe tipped me off and I proceeded at once to the seventh floor, accompanied by the trustworthy students in my Inquisitorial Squad, so as to catch those in the meeting red-handed. It appears that they were forewarned of my arrival, however, because when we reached the seventh floor they were running in every direction. It does not matter, however. I have all their names here, Mr. Crabbe caught Miss Granger with this in her very hand....we have all the evidence we require...”

And to Draco’s horror, she withdrew from her pocket the list of names that had been pinned upon the Room of Requirement’s wall and handed it to Fudge. “The moment I saw Granger’s name first on the list, I knew what we were dealing with,” Umbridge concluded softly.

“Excellent,” said Fudge, a smile spreading across his face. “Excellent, Dolores. And...by thunder...” He looked up at Dumbledore, who was still standing beside Marietta, his wand held loosely in his hand. “See what they’ve named themselves?” Fudge said quietly. “' _Dumbledore’s Army'_....”

Dumbledore reached out and took the piece of parchment from Fudge. As he angled it so that the torchlight illuminates it for his perusal, Draco saw with a jolt of shock that the list appeared different than he remembered, seeing it in the Room every single lesson. It took a second, but then he registered the change--it was shorter. Three names were very pointedly no longer visible, not a trace of ink there to reveal to Fudge or Umbridge or anyone but the members of the DA that Draco, Pansy, and Theo had ever signed the roster.

Draco didn’t know what to say, even if it would have been safe to speak. He thought of Ron shouting for Hermione as they tried to clear the Room upon Dobby’s warning, less than an hour before; and of the fact that she’d gone for the list, rather than escape, and thus left herself vulnerable for Crabbe to capture. She had had the foresight, been quick enough, to move first to protect her Slytherin comrades, choosing their safety over her own.

His fingers flexed wordlessly on her arm, and Hermione did not turn her head towards him, but he saw the tiny upward curve of the corner of her lips. She understood him.

Dumbledore was gazing at the heading that Hermione had scribbled on the sign-up page months before, and for a moment he seemed quite unable to speak. Then he looked up, smiling pleasantly. “Well, the game is up,” he said simply. “Would you like a written confession from me, Cornelius—or will a statement before these witnesses suffice?”

Draco saw McGonagall and Shacklebolt look at each other swiftly. There was fear in both faces. He did not understand what was going on, and neither, apparently, did Fudge. “Statement?” he said slowly. “What—I don’t—?”

“Dumbledore’s Army, Cornelius,” Dumbledore clarified, still smiling as he waved the list of names before Fudge’s face. “Not Granger’s Army. Dumbledore’s Army.”

“But—but—” Understanding blazed suddenly in Fudge’s face. He took a horrified step backward, yelped, and jumped out of the fire again. “You?” he whispered, stamping again on his smoldering cloak.

“That’s right,” Dumbledore confirmed, beaming.

“You organized this?”

“I did.”

“You recruited these students for—for your army?”

“Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting,” Dumbledore affirmed, nodding amiably. “Merely to see whether they would be interested in joining me. I see now that it was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe, of course.” Marietta nodded blankly.

Fudge looked from her to Dumbledore, his chest swelling. “Then you have been plotting against me!” he yelled.

“That’s right,” Dumbledore said cheerfully.

“No!” Hermione cried out. Shacklebolt flashed a look of warning at her, McGonagall widened her eyes threateningly, but it had suddenly dawned upon Draco what Dumbledore was about to do, and he could see that Hermione did not intend to let it happen if she could help it. “No — Professor Dumbledore!”

“Be quiet, Miss Granger, or I am afraid you will have to leave my office,” Dumbledore cut her off calmly.

“Yes, shut up, Granger!” barked Fudge, who was still ogling Dumbledore with a kind of horrified delight. “Well, well, well—I came here tonight expecting to expel Granger and instead—”

“Instead you get to arrest me,” Dumbledore agreed, smiling. “It’s rather like losing a Knut and finding a Galleon, isn’t it?”

“Weasley!” Fudge cried, now positively quivering with delight, “Weasley, have you written it all down, everything he’s said, his confession, have you got it?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir!” Percy squeaked eagerly, his nose splattered with ink from the speed of his note-taking.

“The bit about how he’s been trying to build up an army against the Ministry, how he’s been working to destabilize me?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve got it, yes!” Percy confirmed, scanning his notes joyfully.

“Very well, then,” Fudge said, now radiant with glee. “Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to the Daily Prophet at once. If we send a fast owl we should make the morning edition!” Percy dashed from the room at once, slamming the door behind him, and Fudge turned back to Dumbledore. “You will now be escorted back to the Ministry, where you will be formally charged and then sent to Azkaban to await trial!”

“Ah,” Dumbledore replied gently, “Yes. Yes, I thought we might hit that little snag.”

“Snag?” Fudge repeated, his voice still vibrating with joy. “I see no snag, Dumbledore!”

“Well,” Dumbledore said apologetically, “I’m afraid I do.”

“Oh really?”

“Well—it’s just that you seem to be laboring under the delusion that I am going to—what is the phrase? ‘Come quietly’ I am afraid I am not going to come quietly at all, Cornelius. I have absolutely no intention of being sent to Azkaban. I could break out, of course—but what a waste of time, and frankly, I can think of a whole host of things I would rather be doing.”

Umbridge’s face was growing steadily redder; she looked as though she was being filled with boiling water. Fudge stared at Dumbledore with a very silly expression on his face, as though he had just been stunned by a sudden blow and could not quite believe it had happened. He made a small choking noise and then looked around at Shacklebolt, and at the Auror with short gray hair, who alone of everyone in the room had remained entirely silent so far. The latter gave Fudge a reassuring nod and moved forward a little, away from the wall. Draco saw his hand drift, almost casually, toward his pocket.

“Don’t be silly, Dawlish,” Dumbledore said to him in a kindly tone. “I’m sure you are an excellent Auror, I seem to remember that you achieved ‘Outstanding’ in all your N.E.W.T.s, but if you attempt to—er—‘bring me in’ by force, I will have to hurt you.”

The man called Dawlish blinked, looking rather foolish as he wavered. He looked toward Fudge again, but this time seemed to be hoping for a clue as to what to do next. “So,” Fudge sneered, recovering himself, “You intend to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?”

“Merlin’s beard, no,” Dumbledore answered, still smiling. “Not unless you are foolish enough to force me to.”

“He will not be single-handed!” Professor McGonagall cried loudly, plunging her hand inside her robes.

“Oh yes he will, Minerva!” Dumbledore retorted sharply. “Hogwarts needs you!”

“Enough of this rubbish!” Fudge shouted, pulling out his own wand. “Dawlish! Shacklebolt! Take him!”

A streak of silver light flashed around the room. There was a bang like a gunshot, and the floor trembled. A hand grabbed the scruff of Draco’s neck and forced him down on the floor as a second silver flash went off—several of the portraits yelled, Fawkes screeched, and a cloud of dust filled the air.

Coughing in the dust, Draco saw a dark figure fall to the ground with a crash in front of him. There was a shriek and a thud and somebody cried, “No!” Then the sound of breaking glass, frantically scuffling footsteps, a groan—and silence.

Draco struggled around to see who was half-strangling him, and saw that Professor McGonagall crouched beside him. She had forced him, Hermione, and Marietta all down onto the floor, out of harm’s way. Dust was still floating gently down through the air onto them. Panting slightly, Draco saw a very tall figure moving toward them.

“Are you all right?” Dumbledore asked, approaching them and offering his hands.

“Yes!” Professor McGonagall gasped, accepting his help, and dragging the teenagers up as well.

The dust was clearing. The wreckage of the office now became visible: Dumbledore’s desk had been overturned, all of the spindly tables had been knocked to the floor, their silver instruments in pieces. Fudge, Umbridge, Shacklebolt, and Dawlish lay motionless on the floor. Fawkes the phoenix soared in wide circles above them, singing softly.

“Unfortunately, I had to hex Kingsley too, or it would have looked very suspicious,” Dumbledore explained in a low voice. “He was remarkably quick on the uptake, modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that while everyone was looking the other way—thank him for me, won’t you, Minerva? Now, they will all awake very soon and it will be best if they do not know that we had time to communicate—you must act as though no time has passed, as though they were merely knocked to the ground, they will not remember--”

“Where will you go, Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall whispered, looking worried. “Grimmauld Place?” Draco did not know what that name meant, but he looked wide-eyed between the two professors, waiting for clues. Hermione’s hand found his, and he clutched at her fingers, squeezing gently in wordless support.

“Oh no,” Dumbledore murmured, with a grim smile. “I am not leaving to go into hiding. Fudge will soon wish he’d never dislodged me from Hogwarts, I promise you....”

“Professor Dumbledore...” Hermione began, looking stricken at the outcome of the DA’s existence and actions.

But Dumbledore cut her off before she could say another word. “Listen to me, Hermione,” he said urgently. “Do not stop. What you are doing is vital. Do not lose hope, and _do not stop fighting_.”

Next he looked at Draco, who caught his breath at the intensity of the Headmaster’s gaze. “And you, dear boy--you must continue to study Occlumency as hard as you can, do you understand me? You must do everything that Professor Snape tells you, and practice it particularly every night before sleeping so that you can improve on your ability to protect your mind—I am sure you already understand why, but you must promise me—”

The man called Dawlish was stirring. Dumbledore seized Draco’s wrist. “Remember—shield your mind—you will need it,” Dumbledore whispered once more. Fawkes circled the office and swooped low over him. Dumbledore released Draco, raised his hand, and grasped the phoenix’s long golden tail. There was a flash of fire, and the pair of them had gone.

“Where is he?” Fudge yelped, pushing himself up from the ground. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” Kingsley shouted, also leaping to his feet and looking around frantically. Draco could see the lack of concern in his dark eyes, though, and the teenager hid a smile. So they had at least one Auror firmly in their corner; that was comforting. He could guess that Kingsley was part of the Order, whose full ranks Draco had yet to learn.

Though now that he thought about it, in Hermione’s letter she had mentioned a cousin he had never met...if he recalled correctly, Draco thought he remembered hearing that Nymphadora Tonks was an Auror as well, and she, too, was definitely in the Order.

He refocused as the panic before him continued. “Well, he can’t have Disapparated!” Umbridge cried. “You can’t inside the school grounds—”

“The stairs!” Dawlish shouted at once, and he flung himself at the door, wrenched it open, and disappeared, followed closely by Kingsley and Umbridge. Fudge hesitated, then got to his feet slowly, brushing dust from his front. There was a long, awkward silence.

“Well, Minerva,” Fudge said nastily at length, straightening his torn shirt-sleeves. “I’m afraid this is the end of your friend Dumbledore.”

“You think so, do you?” Professor McGonagall returned scornfully. Fudge seemed not to hear her. He was looking around at the wrecked office. A few of the portraits hissed at him; one or two even made rude hand gestures.

“You’d better get those three off to bed,” Fudge went on, looking back at Professor McGonagall with a dismissive nod toward Draco, Hermione, and Marietta. McGonagall said nothing, but turned and marched the teenagers towards the door.

As it swung closed behind them, Draco heard the voice of one of the occupants of a portrait. “You know, Minister, I disagree with Dumbledore on many counts...but you cannot deny he’s got style...”

* * *

**By Order of the Ministry of Magic:**

**Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.**

**The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight.**

**_Signed_ ** **,**

**Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic**

The notices had gone up all over the school overnight, but they did not explain how every single person within the castle seemed to know that Dumbledore had overcome two Aurors, the High Inquisitor, the Minister of Magic, and his Junior Assistant to escape.

No matter where Draco went within the castle next day, the sole topic of conversation was Dumbledore’s flight, and though some of the details might have gone awry in the retelling (he overheard one second-year girl assuring another that Fudge was now lying in St. Mungo’s with a pumpkin for a head), it was surprising how accurate the rest of their information was.

Everybody seemed aware, for instance, that Draco, Hermione, and Marietta were the only students to have witnessed the scene in Dumbledore’s office, and as Marietta was now in the hospital wing due to the unsightly condition of her face, Hermione was now constantly besieged with requests to give a firsthand account wherever she went.

Draco imagined he might also have been so frequently questioned, except that everyone also seemed already aware that his presence had been as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, and those who weren’t DA members--and therefore didn’t know the full truth--seemed too intimidated by him to dare ask him what had gone down.

“Dumbledore will be back before long,” Ernie Macmillan whispered confidently, a few days later in a double period of Herbology, with students from all four Houses present. Professor Sprout had placed them in groups with a handful of students from each House, and--presumably knowing the score, as a member of the Order herself--she had tactfully arranged their table to only have DA members occupying it.

“They couldn’t keep him away in our second year, and they won’t be able to this time,” Ernie went on. “The Fat Friar told me...” He dropped his voice even further, so that the others had had to lean closer across the table to hear him. “...that Umbridge tried to get back into his office the first night, after they’d searched the castle and grounds for him. Couldn’t get past the gargoyle. The Head’s office has sealed itself against her.” Ernie smirked. “Apparently she had a right little tantrum....”

“Oh, I expect she really fancied herself sitting up there in the Head’s office,” said Hermione viciously, as class concluded, and the group began gathering their things and then made their way towards the side courtyard. Draco, Theo, and Pansy walked a short ways ahead, able to continue listening without appearing to be actively walking with their friends. “Lording it over all the other teachers, the stupid puffed-up, power-crazy old—”

She stopped speaking abruptly, and they all saw at once why. On one of the benches in the shadows of the covered walkway surrounding the courtyard, tiny Dennis Creevey was sitting huddled next to his brother Colin, with the Weasley twins crouching in front of him. George was holding a small bowl up for him, and Draco could see at once that it was the stuff Hermione had used previously for her cut hand, essence of murtlap tentacles.

Draco had known that the exposed DA members had been given a mass detention, and knowing Umbridge, that could only mean one thing--but seeing the evidence, seeing a twelve-year-old boy sniffling into his brother’s shoulder as he nursed a hand bearing the words _I Must Not Question Authority_ carved in his flesh, made Draco’s stomach roll, and he stepped swiftly to one side of the walkway, gripping the railing for stability as his head spun. He felt Pansy’s hand on his arm, gentle, and sensed Hermione standing close behind him.

“I should have taken the fall, too,” Draco whispered, furious at himself. “Left you and Theo out of it, of course, but I should’ve just--owned up to it, said I was part of it--”

“Merlin, no,” Hermione said sharply, coming up beside him. It was dangerous, so risky, if anyone saw them standing so close--but he needed her there, and Draco looked at her face, watching the fire blazing in her eyes as she stared back at him. “You could not have--you _know_ that. Everything would have been ruined--and Voldemort would absolutely have learned the truth of your double agency. You had absolutely no choice.”

“Dennis is fine, anyway--it was just one detention, and she’ll never catch us again.” They looked around as Fred rose, leaving George with the Creeveys and coming over to address them, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. “All our hands will heal, don’t fret.” He looked away, squinting up towards the castle bell tower. “But me and Georgie have been talking.”

George nodded, letting Colin take the bowl and standing to come and join his twin. “We’ve decided we don’t care about getting into trouble anymore.”

“Have you ever?” Hermione asked, half-amused and half-wary at their words.

“’Course we have,” George said promptly. “Never been expelled, have we?"

“We’ve always known where to draw the line,” Fred added.

“We might have put a toe across it occasionally,” George allowed, beginning to smirk at his brother.

“But we’ve always stopped short of causing real mayhem,” Fred agreed.

“But now?” Ron asked tentatively, his voice a mix of hope and concern.

“Well, now—” said George.

“—what with Dumbledore gone—”

“— we reckon a bit of mayhem—”

“—is exactly what our dear new Head deserves,” Fred concluded.

“You mustn’t!” Hermione whispered, eyes wide. “You really mustn’t! She’d love a reason to expel you!”

“Don’t you get it, Hermione?” Fred asked, smiling serenely at her. “We don’t care about staying anymore. We’d walk out right now if we weren’t determined to do our bit for Dumbledore first. So anyway,” he checked his watch, “phase one is about to begin. I’d get in the Great Hall for lunch if I were you, that way the teachers will see you can’t have had anything to do with it.”

“Anything to do with what?” Hermione demanded anxiously.

“You’ll see,” George promised. “Run along, now.” The twins turned away, and disappeared in the swelling crowd descending the stairs toward lunch. Looking highly disconcerted, Ernie muttered something about unfinished Transfiguration homework and scurried away.

“I think we _should_ get out of here, you know,” Hermione muttered nervously. “Just in case...”

“Yeah, all right,” Ron agreed, and the three of them moved inside toward the Great Hall; but Draco had barely glimpsed today’s ceiling of scudding white clouds when...

 _Boom_! The very floor of the castle shook; several people screamed in shock, and minutes later, Umbridge appeared in the entrance hall, staring around wildly. “What was—?” She was gazing around, looking for the source of all the uproar. 

It was not difficult to find.

On the landing at the top of the main stairs, pandemonium reigned. Somebody--and it wasn’t hard to guess who-- had set off what seemed to be an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks. Dragons comprised entirely of green-and-gold sparks were soaring up and down the corridors, emitting loud fiery blasts and bangs as they went. Shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying saucers. Rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars were ricocheting off the walls. Sparklers were writing swear words in midair of their own accord. Fire-crackers were exploding like mines everywhere Draco looked, and instead of burning themselves out, fading from sight, or fizzling to a halt, these pyrotechnical miracles seemed to be gaining in energy and momentum the longer he watched.

Filch and Umbridge were standing, apparently transfixed with horror, halfway up the stairs. As Draco watched, one of the larger Catherine wheels seemed to decide that what it needed was more room to maneuver; it whirled toward Umbridge and Filch with a sinister _wheeeeeeeeee_.

Both adults yelled with fright and ducked; it soared straight out of the front door behind them, and off across the grounds. Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple bat that was smoking ominously took advantage of the open door at the end of the corridor to escape upwards, toward the higher floors.

“Hurry, Filch, hurry!” shrieked Umbridge. “They’ll be all over the school unless we do something—Stupefy!” A jet of red light shot out of the end of her wand and hit one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it exploded with such force that it blasted a hole in a painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a meadow—she ran for it just in time, reappearing seconds later squashed into the painting next door, where a couple of wizards playing cards stood up hastily to make room for her.

“Don’t Stun them, Filch!” shouted Umbridge angrily, for all the world as though it had been his suggestion to do so.

“Right you are, Headmistress!” wheezed Filch, who was a Squib and could no more have Stunned the fireworks than swallowed them. He dashed to a nearby cupboard, pulled out a broom, and began swatting at the fireworks in midair; within seconds the head of the broom was ablaze.

Draco had seen enough. Laughing, he ducked down low, running for the alcove concealed behind the tapestry that Hermione had shown him. He slipped through it to find Fred and George hiding just behind it, listening to Umbridge and Filch’s yells and quaking with suppressed mirth. “Impressive,” Draco praised them quietly, grinning. “Very impressive...You’ll put Dr. Filibuster out of business in no time....”

“Cheers,” whispered George, wiping tears of laughter from his face. “Oh, I hope she tries Vanishing them next....They multiply by ten every time you try....”

The fireworks continued to burn and spread all over the school throughout the afternoon. Though they caused plenty of disruption, particularly the firecrackers, the other teachers did not seem to mind them very much. “Dear, dear,” Professor McGonagall said sardonically, as one of the dragons soared around her classroom, emitting loud bangs and exhaling flames. “Miss Brown, would you mind running along to the Headmistress and informing her that we have an escaped firework in our classroom?”

The best part of it all was that Professor Umbridge spent her first afternoon as Headmistress running all over the school answering the summonses of the other teachers, none of whom seemed able to rid their rooms of the fireworks without her. When the final bell rang, and the students were heading back downstairs for dinner, Draco saw, with immense amusement, a disheveled and soot-blackened Umbridge tottering sweaty-faced from Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

“Thank you so much, Professor!” Professor Flitwick cried in his squeaky little voice. “I could have gotten rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn’t sure whether I had the authority....” Beaming, he closed his classroom door in her snarling face.

Halfway across the entrance hall, Cho came hurrying up to Draco, seeming unconcerned at being seen approaching him openly. “Over here,” he said quickly, leading the way back to the hidden alcove one more; the twins had long-since left it. “Are you alright? I know you were in the detention as well, how’s your hand? And have your parents had any issues?”

“Oh no,” Cho said, looking pained. “I mean--my hand will heal, and my parents--I swore to them and Umbridge that I was sorry and would never do it again, so they’re fine--disappointed in me, but fine, but...well, I just wanted to say...” She hesitated, twisting her fingers together, then pressed on. “Draco, I never dreamed Marietta would tell....”

And just like that, Draco’s good mood dropped to the ground well below his feet, and he frowned at her, knowing he probably looked a little murderous as his concern immediately melted away. “Yeah, well, she did,” he said curtly. “She got everyone in trouble, including you, her supposed best friend.”

Cho bit her lip a little, her eyes looking watery. “I’m so sorry…It’s just…Marietta was one of the few people who stood by me, after...after Cedric and Harry died. Our other friends got tired of me or annoyed, and I was always so stressed, but Marietta was there, always. I thought she could be trusted with this, I wanted us both to learn together. And she was under so much stress, since her parents support Umbridge, and she was getting scared that her mother would lose her job if this got out--”

“She's worried her mother will be sacked?” Draco’s tone turned ice cold, and Cho’s eyes widened a little with real fear at his tone. “ _I'_ _m_ worried I'm going to be tortured and murdered by Voldemort himself, just like the dozen defected Death Eaters were right in front of me _in my own garden_. Don't you _ever_ suggest that what Marietta did was justified."

“Draco--”

“I’m putting my life on the line here, Chang!” His voice came out harsher then, truly furious; Cho took a step back. “I’m in danger, literally every second! Do you have any idea what I suffered this summer? What I’m going to keep suffering, if I’m going to keep playing the spy? You have no idea, you don’t get to talk, and neither does she! I knew what I was getting into, the second I went to Dumbledore. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m not the one walking around with SNEAK written across my face is ugly boils.”

“That was an ugly trick Hermione pulled,” Cho shot back, though she was on shaky ground and they both knew it. “She should have told us the paper was jinxed--”

“Well, I think it was brilliant,” Draco said coolly. “Hermione would have made a wonderful Slytherin.”

“Oh sure, stand up for Hermione,” Cho said in frustration. “Of course you’d side with her, above anyone else, what with you two and your nonstop flirting, and everything.”

Draco felt his face going hot, and he knew just that an angry flush was spreading across his face. In a fit of pure anger, he spat out, “Fifty points from Ravenclaw.”

She gaped. “You’re just a Prefect, you don’t have the authority--”

“No,” he said, before pointing at his second badge. “But Inquisitorial Squad members do. So I’m taking points, for Merietta’s betrayal, and your flimsy defense of her. Think carefully about how you want to proceed from here, Chang. Do you really think Cedric would be impressed by you?”

That was a low blow, and it stung him the second the words flew out of his mouth. Cho’s eyes filled with tears again. “I guess you haven’t changed as much as I thought you did,” she said, her own voice shaky and angry, before she turned on her heel and stormed away. Draco stared after her, torn between the impulse to apologize, and the raw anger that had dragged the words from him to begin with.

There was suddenly a great deal of shouting and movement coming from back in the entrance hall. Draco left the alcove, hurrying along the corridor, and he found what looked like most of the school assembled there.

It was just like the night when Trelawney had been sacked. Students were standing all around the walls in a great ring (some of them, Draco noticed, covered in a substance that looked very like Stinksap). Teachers and ghosts were also in the crowd. Prominent among the onlookers were the other members of the Inquisitorial Squad, all of whom except for Theo and Pansy looked exceptionally pleased with themselves. Peeves was bobbing overhead, gazing down upon Fred and George, who stood in the middle of the floor with the unmistakable look of two people who had just been cornered. Draco’s breath froze in his chest.

“So!” Umbridge cried out triumphantly, and Draco realized that she was standing just a few feet away from him on the stairs, once more looking down upon her prey. “So...you think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?” Draco raised his eyebrows; he’d have to head upstairs and investigate that one, before Umbridge got it all tidied up.

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” Fred replied, looking back up at her without the slightest sign of fear.

Filch elbowed his way closer to Umbridge, almost crying with happiness. “I’ve got the form, Headmistress,” he croaked hoarsely, waving a piece of parchment gleefully. “I’ve got the form, and I’ve got the whips waiting....Oh, let me do it now....”

“Very good, Argus,” Umbridge said. “You two,” she went on, gazing down at Fred and George coldly, “are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school.”

“You know what?” Fred retorted lightly. “I don’t think we are.” He turned to his twin. “George,” Fred continued, “I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” George agreed lightly.

“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you reckon?” Fred asked, grinning. Clearly, they already had their plan ready.

“Definitely,” George affirmed, beaming back at him. And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised their wands and said together, “Accio brooms!”

Draco heard a loud crash somewhere in the distance, several floors ahead. And then suddenly Fred and George’s broomsticks, one still trailing the heavy chain and iron peg with which Umbridge had fastened them to her office wall following banning the twins from Quidditch, were hurtling along the corridor toward their owners. The brooms turned left, streaked down the stairs, and stopped sharply in front of the twins, the chain clattering loudly on the flagged stone floor. “We won’t be seeing you,” Fred told Professor Umbridge, laughing as he swung his leg over his broomstick.

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” George added, mounting his own.

Fred looked around at the assembled students, and at the silent, watchful crowd. “If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to Number Ninety-Three, Diagon Alley—home of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes,” he called loudly. “Our new premises!”

“Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,” added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge.

“ _Stop them_!” Umbridge shrieked to the entrance hall at large, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below and keeping the students back.

Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist, now bobbing on his level well above the crowd. “Give her hell from us, Peeves.”

And Peeves, whom Draco had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.


	10. Let Your Heart Hold Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He took out his frustration in the only way that he had: by redoubling his efforts for the DA."
> 
> Chapter title from "Let Your Heart Hold Fast" by Ford Atlantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -As promised, canon content beginning to mix really, really well with original plot details. :D Year 6 is going to be different, we can tell ya that!
> 
> -All chapters are titled from either the titular song, or others on our soundtrack for this story. We'd be delighted to share that soundtrack if anyone is ever interested. <3

The story of Fred and George’s flight to freedom was retold so often over the next few days that Draco could tell it would soon become the stuff of Hogwarts legend. Within a week, even those who had been eyewitnesses were half-convinced that they had seen the twins dive-bomb Umbridge on their brooms, pelting her with Dung-bombs before zooming out of the doors. In the immediate aftermath of their departure there was a great wave of talk about copying them, so that Draco frequently heard students saying things like, “Honestly, some days I just feel like jumping on my broom and leaving this place,” or else, “One more lesson like that and I might just do a Weasley....”

Fred and George had made sure that nobody was likely to forget them anytime soon, either. For one thing, they had not left instructions on how to remove the swamp that now filled the corridor on the fifth floor of the east wing. Umbridge and Filch had been observed trying different means of removing it but without success. Eventually the area was roped off and Filch, gnashing his teeth furiously, was given the task of punting students across it to their classrooms.

Draco was fairly certain that teachers like McGonagall or Flitwick could have removed the swamp in an instant, but just as in the case of Fred and George’s Wildfire Whiz-Bangs, they seemed to prefer to watch Umbridge struggle.

Then there were the two large broom-shaped holes in Umbridge’s office door, through which Fred and George’s Cleansweeps had smashed to rejoin their masters. Filch fitted a new door; but Umbridge’s troubles were far from over. Inspired by Fred and George’s example, a great number of students were now vying for the newly vacant positions of Troublemakers-in-Chief. In spite of the new door, somebody managed to slip a hairy-snouted niffler into Umbridge’s office, which promptly tore the place apart in its search for shiny objects, leapt on Umbridge on her reentrance, and tried to gnaw the rings off her stubby fingers.

Dungbombs and Stinkpellets were dropped so frequently in the corridors that it became the new fashion for students to perform Bubble-Head Charms on themselves before leaving lessons, which ensured them a supply of fresh clean air, even though it gave them all the peculiar appearance of wearing upside-down goldfish bowls on their heads.

Filch prowled the corridors with a horsewhip ready in his hands, desperate to catch miscreants, but the problem was that there were now so many of them that he did not know which way to turn. The Inquisitorial Squad--most of them--attempted to help him, but odd things kept happening to its members. Warrington reported to the hospital wing with a horrible skin complaint that made him look as though he had been coated in cornflakes, and Milicent Bulstrode missed all her lessons the following day, as she had sprouted antlers.

On the other hand, despite being exposed after Marietta Edgecombe's betrayal, the DA found itself still intact--and able to keep fighting. There had been uncertainty as to whether they should continue meeting, now that Umbridge had caught them red-handed once; but to their utter delight, it was Umbridge herself who empowered them to go on.

Following the showdown in the Headmaster’s office, Umbridge created a schedule by which the Inquisitorial Squad members worked in two’s and three’s to patrol the seventh floor corridor where the Room of Requirement was located.

Draco took advantage of her blind fondness for him to request that he, Pansy, and Theo get to be together for their shifts, and thus the DA continued to thrive. On evenings when it was their turn to stand guard, they scheduled the lessons, with Theo and Pansy taking turns slipping into the Room to train while the other kept watch for unexpected Squad members. It was perfect.

Meanwhile, it became clear just how many Skiving Snackboxes Fred and George had managed to sell before leaving. Umbridge only had to enter her classroom for the students assembled there to begin fainting, vomiting, developing dangerous fevers, or else spouting blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and frustration, she attempted to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students simply told her stubbornly they were suffering “Umbridge-itis.”

After putting four successive classes in detention and still failing to discover their secret, she was forced to give up and allow the bleeding, swooning, sweating, and vomiting students to leave her classes in droves.

But not even the users of the Snackboxes could compete with the master of chaos, Peeves, who seemed to have taken Fred’s parting words deeply to heart.

Cackling madly, he soared through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, and toppling statues and vases. Twice he shut Mrs. Norris inside suits of armor, from which she was rescued, yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. He smashed lanterns and snuffed out candles; juggled burning torches over the heads of screaming students; caused neatly stacked piles of parchment to topple into fires or out of windows; flooded the second floor when he pulled off all the taps in the bathrooms; dropped a bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast; and, whenever he fancied a break, spent hours at a time floating along after Umbridge and blowing loud raspberries every time she spoke.

None of the staff aside from Filch seemed inclined to help her, either. Less than a week after Fred and George’s departure, Draco witnessed Professor McGonagall walking right past Peeves, who was determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and he could have sworn he heard her tell the poltergeist out of the corner of her mouth, “It unscrews the other way.”

Despite the term beginning and the regular academic workload resuming, Draco also remained diligent in his Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. It felt like a constant repetition of three steps forward, two steps back; Severus assured him, at the end of every lesson, that Draco _was_ showing improvement, but that to become a true master of the art...it took time, no matter your natural talent, or your determination.

“How long did it take you?” Draco asked wearily one evening, accepting the chilled compress that Snape had conjured for his aching head.

His godfather smiled wryly. “Like you, I began studying the concept of it as a young child, prior to my Hogwarts days...I had a less pleasant home environment than you have had the gift of being raised in.” Draco said nothing; he knew, in limited detail, that Severus’ father had been a Muggle who did not like learning about his wife’s identity as a witch. “I made Occlumency a focus of study equal in priority to my everyday schoolwork, so that I had fully mastered it long before leaving Hogwarts.”

“Was it ever about the fact that Dumbledore needed you to be a spy?” Draco asked, more quietly, and he saw Severus’ hands still before the older man faced him again.

“By the time that became my role in the war, I was established as one of the most skilled Occlumens to be found in England,” Severus replied. “Which was fortunate, as that meant that the Dark Lord never questioned why I had pursued it as a study. Like what we are striving for with you, it has proven itself an invaluable element to my double agency. The one believes that it protects me as his ever-faithful servant...when it fact, it secures my safety and survival as Dumbledore’s.”

He gestured, and Draco surrendered the compress back to him. “One more time, and then we will call it an evening,” Severus said, and Draco nodded, sighing as he pushed himself back onto his feet.

“ _Legilimens_!”

Draco staggered as his mind felt once more ripped open--he could see the Room of Requirement, aglow in the pale white-blue light of multiple Patronuses or attempts, the DA all beaming--Hermione’s face as they stood in Dumbledore’s office, facing down Fudge and Umbridge, she seemed so fearless even as it all fell apart--except--

He could also still see Severus standing in front of him, his eyes fixed upon Draco’s face, muttering under his breath....and somehow, Severus was growing clearer, and the figures in the Headmaster’s office were growing fainter...

Draco raised his own wand. “Protego!”

Severus stumbled back; his wand flew upward, away from Draco—and suddenly Draco’s mind was teeming with memories that were not his—a dark-haired man was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small boy cried in a corner.....A red-haired little girl with eyes that Draco found shockingly familiar was smiling at him on the Hogwarts Express, asking about Slytherin House...the same girl, a few years older and wearing Gryffindor robes, glaring down a man who Draco recognized without ever having seen him before, his eyes were hazel though, but she was standing between him and Severus and telling him off....Severus’ voice, pleading, begging Lily to listen to him—

“ _Enough_!”

Draco felt as though he had been pushed hard in the chest; he took several staggering steps backward, hit some of the shelves covering Severus’ walls, and heard something crack. Snape was shaking slightly, very white in the face. “Reparo,” he whispered, and the jar that had fallen to the stone floor beside Draco flew back together.

“Lily?” Draco asked softly, and his godfather looked over at him, his dark eyes unfathomable. “Isn’t that--I mean, her eyes--wasn’t she--”

“We are finished for tonight.” Severus straightened, turning his back on Draco, and for the first time in his life, Draco felt a cold wall slide into place between him and his godfather. “I will see you in class--please continue practicing by clearing your mind every night.”

Draco hesitated, staring at the other man’s back. He knew he’d trespassed into memories that were not his own--but he had never before felt so strongly that he’d uncovered something that was too raw, too painful to be touched, and that he’d had no right to see.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Severus was so still. Draco closed his mouth again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, wanting his godfather to know that he hadn’t intended the intrusion, and then he turned and hurried from the office.

* * *

The night before their O.W.L. exams began was an uncomfortable sort of evening. Everyone was trying to do some last-minute studying but nobody seemed to be getting very far. None of the fifth years talked very much at breakfast the next day, either. Pansy was staring into her oatmeal as if seriously considering drowning herself, while Theo and Blaise were looking at flashcards. Crabbe and Goyle a bit further down the table were stuffing their faces, though there seemed to be a height of urgency in their movements, as if they too had finally realized just how serious this was. Draco just poured himself a third cup of coffee, the caffeine making him a bit jittery.

They had their Herbology exam on Wednesday--and other than a small bite from a Fanged Geranium, Draco felt he did quite well--and then, on Thursday, Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Draco was certain that he had passed. He had no problem with any of the written questions and took particular pleasure, during the practical examination, in performing all the counterjinxes and defensive spells right in front of Umbridge, who was watching coolly from near the doors into the entrance hall.

The DA gathered together to study that night, as it was the Slytherins’ turn for Squad patrol. There was a general air of exhaustion hanging over everyone; though their books were open and spread around them, most of them looked half-asleep as they slumped in the cushions. The Room had generously provided them with more than they usually needed for lessons.

“How did your Ancient Runes exam go?” Ron asked Hermione, yawning into his hand.

“I mistranslated ‘ehwaz,’ ” Hermione said crossly. “It means ‘partnership,’ not ‘defense,’ I mixed it up with ‘eihwaz.’”

“Ah, well,” Ron said drowsily, “that’s only one mistake, isn’t it, you’ll still get—”

“Not necessarily,” Hermione said, scowling. “It could be the one mistake that makes the difference between a pass and a fail. And what’s more, someone’s put another niffler in Umbridge’s office, I don’t know how they got it through that new door, but I just walked past there and Umbridge is shrieking her head off—by the sound of it, it tried to take a chunk out of her leg—”

“Good,” Draco and Ron said in unison, smirking at each other.

“It is not good!” Hermione countered hotly. “She thinks it’s Hagrid doing it, remember? And we do not want Hagrid chucked out!”

“He was teaching all day long, she can’t blame him,” Ron protested; as they had made their way between exams earlier that day, they had seen a third-year Care of Magical Creatures lesson taking place out the windows. Judging by how the boys had been standing back slightly compared to the girls, they’d guessed that Hagrid was likely covering unicorns, or something similar.

“Don’t be naive, Ron, do you really think Umbridge will wait for proof ?” Hermione asked, who seemed determined to be in a towering temper. Ron, wisely, did not engage, letting her glare into space as he and Draco tiredly practiced Summoning charms with the books lining the room.

Draco was determined to perform well in Tuesday’s Care of Magical Creatures exam, not wanting to let Hagrid down. The practical examination took place in the afternoon on the lawn on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where students were required to correctly identify the knarl hidden among a dozen hedgehogs--the trick was to offer them all milk in turn; knarls, highly suspicious creatures whose quills had many magical properties, generally went berserk at what they saw as an attempt to poison them--and then demonstrate correct handling of a bowtruckle; feed and clean a fire-crab without sustaining serious burns; and choose, from a wide selection of food, the diet they would give a sick unicorn.

He could see Hagrid watching anxiously out of his cabin window. When the examiner, a plump little Ministry witch, smiled at him and told him he could leave, Draco made sure to subtly give Hagrid a fleeting thumbs-up before heading back up to the castle.

The Astronomy theory exam on Wednesday morning went well enough; Draco momentarily struggled to recall the names of all of Jupiter’s moons right, but in the end he was confident that he had gotten it. They had to wait until evening for their practical Astronomy exam, with the Slytherins and Gryffindors performing together.

When they reached the top of the Astronomy Tower at eleven o’clock, they found a perfect night for stargazing, cloudless and still. The grounds were bathed in silvery moonlight, and there was a slight chill in the air. Each student set up their telescopes and, when Professor Marchbanks gave the word, proceeded to fill in the blank star chart he or she had been given. Professors Marchbanks and Tofty strolled among them, watching as they entered the precise positions of the stars and planets that they were observing.

All was quiet except for the rustle of parchment, the occasional creak of a telescope as it was adjusted on its stand, and the scribbling of many quills. Half an hour passed, then an hour; the little squares of reflected gold light flickering on the ground below started to vanish as lights in the castle windows were extinguished.

As Draco completed the constellation Orion on his chart, however, the front doors of the castle opened directly below the parapet where he was standing, so that light spilled down the stone steps a little way across the lawn. He glanced down as he made a slight adjustment to the position of his telescope and saw five or six elongated shadows moving over the brightly lit grass before the doors swung shut and the lawn became a sea of darkness once more. Draco put his eye back to his telescope and refocused it, now examining Venus. He looked down at his chart to enter the planet there, but something distracted him.

Pausing with his quill suspended over the parchment, he squinted down into the shadowy grounds and saw half a dozen figures walking over the lawn. If they had not been moving, and the moonlight had not been gilding the tops of their heads, they would have been indistinguishable from the dark ground on which they stood.

Even at this distance, Draco immediately recognized the walk of the squattest among them, who seemed to be leading the group. He could not think why Umbridge would be taking a stroll outside past midnight, much less accompanied by five others.

Then somebody coughed behind him, and he remembered that he was halfway through an exam. He had quite forgotten Venus’s position—jamming his eye to his telescope, he found it again and was again on the point of entering it on his chart when, alert for any odd sound, he heard a distant knock that echoed through the deserted grounds, followed immediately by the muffled barking of a large dog.

He looked up again, his heart hammering. There were lights on in Hagrid’s windows now, and the people he had observed crossing the lawn were silhouetted against them. The door opened, and he distinctly saw six tiny but sharply defined figures walk over the threshold. The door closed again and there was silence.

Draco felt infinitely uneasy. He glanced around to see whether Ron or Hermione had noticed what he had, but Professor Marchbanks came walking behind him at that moment, and not wanting to appear as though he was looking at anyone else’s work, Draco hastily bent over his star chart and pretended to be adding notes to it while really peering over the top of the parapet toward Hagrid’s cabin.

Figures were now moving across the cabin windows, temporarily blocking the light. He could feel Professor Marchbanks’s eyes on the back of his neck and pressed his eye again to his telescope, staring up at the moon though he had marked its position an hour ago; but as Professor Marchbanks moved on, Draco heard a roar from the distant cabin that echoed through the darkness right to the top of the Astronomy Tower.

Several of the people around him ducked out from behind their telescopes and peered instead in the direction of Hagrid’s cabin. Professor Tofty gave another dry little cough. “Try and concentrate, now, boys and girls,” he said softly. Most people returned to their telescopes. Draco looked to his left. Hermione was gazing transfixed at Hagrid’s. “Ahem—twenty minutes to go,” Professor Tofty added, trying to refocus them.

Hermione jumped and returned at once to her star chart; Draco looked down at his own and noticed that he had mislabelled Venus as Mars. He bent to correct it.

There was a loud _bang_ from the grounds. Several people said “Ouch!” as they poked themselves in the face with the ends of their telescopes, hastening to see what was going on below. Hagrid’s door had burst open and by the light flooding out of the cabin they saw him quite clearly, a massive figure roaring and brandishing his fists, surrounded by six people, all of whom, judging by the tiny threads of red light they were casting in his direction, seemed to be attempting to Stun him at once.

“No!” Hermione cried, abandoning her telescope and pressing herself against the edge of the parapet, anguished.

“My dear!” Professor Tofty cried out, audibly scandalized. “This is an examination!”

But nobody was paying the slightest attention to their star charts anymore. Jets of red light were still flying beside Hagrid’s cabin, yet somehow they seemed to be bouncing off him. He was still upright and still, as far as Draco could see, still fighting valiantly. Cries and yells echoed across the grounds; a man yelled, “Be reasonable, Hagrid!” and Hagrid roared back, “Reasonable be damned, yeh won’ take me like this, Dawlish!”

Draco could see the tiny outline of Fang, faithfully attempting to defend Hagrid, leaping at the wizards surrounding him until a Stunning Spell caught him and he fell to the ground. Hagrid gave a howl of fury, lifted the culprit bodily from the ground, and threw him. The man flew what looked like ten feet and did not get up again.

Hermione gasped, both hands over her mouth; Draco looked around at Ron and saw that he too was watching, looking terrified. None of them had ever seen Hagrid in a real temper before.

“Look!” Parvati squealed, who was now also leaning over the parapet and pointing to the foot of the castle, where the front doors seemed to have opened again; more light had spilled out onto the dark lawn and a single long black shadow was now rippling across the lawn.

“Now, really!” Professor Tofty fretted anxiously. “Only sixteen minutes left, you know!”

But nobody paid him the slightest attention: They were watching the person now sprinting toward the battle beside Hagrid’s cabin. “How dare you!” the figure shouted as she ran. “How dare you!”

“It’s McGonagall!” Hermione whispered frantically.

“Leave him alone! Alone, I say!” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang through the darkness. “On what grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing, nothing to warrant such—”

Hermione, Parvati, and Lavender all screamed. No fewer than four Stunners had shot from the figures around the cabin toward Professor McGonagall. Halfway between cabin and castle the red beams collided with her. For a moment she looked luminous, illuminated by an eerie red glow, then was lifted right off her feet, landed hard on her back, and moved no more.

“Galloping gargoyles!” Professor Tofty shouted, who seemed to have forgotten the exam completely. “Not so much as a warning! Outrageous behavior!”

“ _Cowards_!” Hagrid bellowed, his voice carrying clearly to the top of the tower, and several lights flickered back on inside the castle. “Ruddy cowards! Have some o’ _that_ —An’ _that—_ ”

“Oh my—” Hermione gasped. Hagrid took two massive swipes at his closest attackers; judging by their immediate collapse, they had been knocked out cold. Draco saw him double over and thought for a moment that he had finally been overcome by a spell; but on the contrary, the next moment Hagrid was standing again with what appeared to be a sack on his back—and then Draco realized that Fang’s limp body was draped around his shoulders.

“Get him, get him!” Umbridge screamed, but her remaining helper seemed highly reluctant to go within reach of Hagrid’s fists. Indeed, he was backing away so fast he tripped over one of his unconscious colleagues and fell over.

Hagrid had turned and begun to run with Fang still hung around his neck; Umbridge sent one last Stunning Spell after him but it missed, and Hagrid, running full-pelt toward the distant gates, disappeared into the darkness.

There was a long minute’s quivering silence, everybody gazing open-mouthed into the grounds, where nothing was moving now. Then Professor Tofty’s voice said feebly, “Um...five minutes to go, everybody...”

Though he had only filled in two-thirds of his chart, Draco was now desperate for the end of the exam. When it came at last, he, Ron, and Hermione forced their telescopes haphazardly back into their holders and dashed back down the spiral staircase. None of the students moved toward their respective dormitories yet—they were all talking loudly and excitedly at the foot of the Astronomy Tower stairs about what they had witnessed out on the grounds. No one even seemed to be aware of the intermingling of the Houses.

“That evil woman!” Hermione panted, who seemed to be having difficulty talking due to rage. “Trying to sneak up on Hagrid in the dead of night!”

“She clearly wanted to avoid another scene like Trelawney’s,” Ernie Macmillan said sagely, squeezing over to join them through the crowd in the limited space.

“Hagrid did well for himself, though, didn’t he?” Ron said, who looked more alarmed than impressed despite his praise. “How come all the spells bounced off him?”

“It’ll be his giant blood,” Hermione replied shakily. “It’s very hard to Stun a giant, they’re like trolls, really tough....But poor Professor McGonagall....Four Stunners straight in the chest, and she’s not exactly young, is she?”

“Dreadful, dreadful,” Ernie agreed, shaking his head pompously. “Well, I’m off to bed.... ’Night, all...” As if a silent agreement had been reached, all of the students then began drifting apart, though they were still talking excitedly about what they had seen.

“At least they didn’t get to take Hagrid off to Azkaban,” Ron said bracingly. “I ’spect he’s gone to join Dumbledore, hasn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” Hermione murmured, who was still tearful. “Oh, this is awful, I really thought Dumbledore would be back before long, but now we’ve lost Hagrid too....” She looked around as footsteps approached, tensing; then she relaxed again at the sight of more DA members coming into the tower space, coming from other various examinations.

Those who hadn’t witnessed it directly had already been filled in on what had transpired. “But why sack Hagrid now?” Angelina asked in dismay, shaking her head. “It’s not like Trelawney, he’s been teaching so much better this year!”

“Umbridge hates part-humans,” Hermione said bitterly, striding to one of the slitted windows in the Tower, and glaring out into the darkness. “She was always going to try and get Hagrid out. And she thought Hagrid was the one putting nifflers in her office.”

“Oh blimey,” said Lee, covering his mouth with horror. “It’s me’s been putting the nifflers in her office, Fred and George left me a couple, I’ve been levitating them in through her window....”

“She’d have sacked him anyway,” Dean reassured him glumly. “He was too close to Dumbledore.”

“That’s true,” Draco agreed, sighing. Theo, and Pansy came to his side, and he nodded at them, starting to follow them towards the next staircase down. They all needed to return to their dorms, lest they be caught out past curfew. Even on exam nights--and in the aftermath of something shocking like Hagrid’s departure--the rules still stood, and they several of them were Prefects. “I just hope Professor McGonagall’s all right. Hagrid was right--bloody cowards, those brutes who were with Umbridge.”

“They carried her back up to the castle, we watched through the dormitory window,” Colin Creevey reported. “She didn’t look very well at all....”

“Madam Pomfrey will sort her out,” Hermione said firmly, waving at the Slytherin trio before they departed. “She’s never failed yet.” 

* * *

Things did not improve at all, the following day.

When Pansy’s Daily Prophet arrived with the morning post, she smoothed it out, gazed for a moment at the front page, and then gave a gasp that caused everyone near them at the Slytherin table to stare at her.

“What?” Draco and Theo asked together, leaning closer.

Rather than answer, she just spread the newspaper out over the table in front of them and pointed at ten black-and-white photographs that filled the whole of the front page, nine showing wizards’ faces and the tenth, a witch’s. Some of the people in the photographs were silently jeering; others were tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture was captioned with a name and the crime for which the person had been sent to Azkaban.

 _Antonin Dolohov_ , read the legend beneath a wizard with a long, pale, twisted face who was sneering up at them, _Convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett_. _Augustus Rookwood_ , said the caption beneath a pockmarked man with greasy hair who was leaning against the edge of his picture, looking bored, _Convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic Secrets to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_.

But Draco’s eyes went at once to the tenth picture, of the witch. Her face had captured his attention the moment he had seen the paper.

She had long, dark hair that looked unkempt and straggly in the picture, though he had seen it sleek, thick, and shining in photographs at Malfoy Manor. She glared up at him through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant, disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth. She still retained vestiges of great good looks, hints of shared features with her beautiful younger sisters, but something—perhaps fourteen years in Azkaban—had taken most of her beauty.

 _Bellatrix Lestrange, Convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom_.

Draco’s lips parted silently, and his eyes darted sideways to look over at the Gryffindor table; Hermione had her copy of the Prophet, and was sharing it with Ron, Ginny, and Neville. The round-faced boy did not appear to be breathing. Draco could not guess, from that distance, what Neville must be thinking as he looked at the photo of the woman who had taken his parents from him.

Pansy nudged him, and pointed at the headline over the pictures, which Draco, concentrating on Bellatrix, had not yet read.

**MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN**

**MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS “RALLYING POINT”**

**FOR OLD DEATH EATERS**

“Black?” he muttered, brow furrowing. “Do they seriously mean— ?”

“He’s been the perfect scapegoat for them, of course they’d seriously use him,” Pansy said softly. “Keep reading.”

_The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban. Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening, and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals. “We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were two and a half years ago when the murderer Sirius Black escaped,” said Fudge last night. “Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely that these individuals, who include Black’s cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals and beg the magical community to remain alert and cautious. On no account should any of these individuals be approached._

“Fudge is such a bloody moron,” Draco growled. “He’s blaming the break-out on Sirius Black?”

After Hermione’s words about Draco’s long-disowned second cousin during the first night they’d become allies, sitting in Dumbledore’s office, she had gone on to tell him the entire story. How Black had been like a brother to Harry Potter’s father James, and had mistakenly trusted another of their friends with their Fidelius charm, resulting in their betrayal and murder.

Draco had also finally had “Grimmauld Place” explained to him; it was one of the ancestral homes owned by his mother’s extended family, and it was where Sirius was now in hiding, right in the heart of London, practically under the Ministry’s noses.

“What other options does he have?” Theo mused. “He can hardly say, ‘Sorry everyone, Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the Azkaban guards must have joined the Dark Lord, and now all of his worst supporters have broken out too.’ I mean, he’s spent the last six months trying to discredit Dumbledore out of his fear of him building an army, hasn’t he?”

Pansy folded open the newspaper and began to read the full report inside, while Draco looked around the rest of the Great Hall. He could not understand why his fellow students were not looking scared about the terrible piece of news on the front page; but he supposed that very few of them took the newspaper every day, like Pansy and Hermione.

There they all were, talking about homework and Quidditch and who knew what other rubbish, and outside these walls ten more Death Eaters had swollen Voldemort’s ranks....and not just any Death Eaters.

Draco had no real memories of his aunt, as she’d been sent to Azkaban--quite proudly, according to his stricken mother--in the round-up following Voldemort’s downfall to Harry Potter, when Draco was just a toddler. But he knew enough about her. She was one of the most vicious people he had ever heard of, as merciless as her beloved master; her sadism made Umbridge’s pleasure in hurting others seem like commonplace schoolyard bullying.

Draco glanced up at the staff table, where the tension was far more tangible. McGonagall and Snape were deep in conversation, both looking extremely grave. Professor Sprout had the Prophet propped against a bottle of ketchup, and was reading the front page with such concentration that she was not noticing the gentle drip of egg yolk falling into her lap from her stationary spoon.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Professor Umbridge was tucking into a bowl of porridge. For once her pouchy toad’s eyes were not sweeping the Great Hall looking for misbehaving students. She scowled as she gulped down her food, and every now and then she shot a malevolent glance up the table to where Snape and McGonagall were talking so intently.

Those who came from Wizarding families had grown up hearing the names of these Death Eaters spoken with almost as much fear as Voldemort’s; the crimes they had committed during the days of Voldemort’s reign of terror were legendary. And there were many more relatives of their victims among the Hogwarts students than just Neville, who now found themselves the unwilling objects of a gruesome sort of reflected fame as they walked the corridors.

Susan Bones, who had an uncle, aunt, and cousins who had all died at the hands of one of the ten, remarked miserably during Herbology that she now had a good idea what it must have felt like to be Harry Potter--or how Draco currently suffered, every day. “And I don’t know how you stand it, it’s horrible,” she added bluntly, dumping far too much dragon manure on her tray of Screechsnap seedlings, causing them to wriggle and squeak in discomfort.

Draco was, indeed, the subject of renewed muttering and pointing in the corridors, mostly confusion and suspicion from his classmates who were not in the DA, and did not know that Draco hated his aunt Bellatrix just as fiercely as any of them. Some sounded curious rather than hostile, though, and once or twice he was sure he overheard snatches of conversation that suggested that the speakers were not satisfied with the Prophet’s version of how and why ten Death Eaters had managed to break out of Azkaban fortress.

In their confusion and fear, these doubters now seemed to be turning to the only other explanation available to them. Hermione’s outbursts from the first few Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons of that year were being revisited in conversation again; and when she was asked about it in the corridors and common room, Hermione calmly stated that she had meant every word, and they were right to draw the obvious connection between this mass-breakout, and the inevitable return of Lord Voldemort.

It was not only the students’ mood that had changes. It was now quite common to come across two or three teachers conversing in low, urgent whispers in the corridors, breaking off their conversations the moment they saw students approaching.

“They obviously can’t talk freely in the staffroom anymore,” Hermione said in a low voice, as she and Ron passed Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the Charms classroom one day. As usual, Draco, Pansy, and Theo walked a few paces behind, able to hear her words without being blatant about their camaraderie. “Not with Umbridge there.”

“Reckon they know anything new?” Ron asked, gazing back over his shoulder at the three teachers.

“Well if they do, we’re not going to hear about it, are we?” Hermione said irritably. “Not after Decree...What number are we on now?”

New signs had appeared on the house notice boards the morning after news of the Azkaban breakout:

**— By order of—**

**The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts**

**Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.**

**The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-six.**

**Signed: Delores Umbridge, High Inquisitor**

This decree had promptly become the subject of a great number of jokes among the students. Lee had pointed out to Umbridge that by the terms of the new rule she was not allowed to tell him off for playing Exploding Snap in the back of the class. “Exploding Snap’s got nothing to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That’s not information relating to your subject!”

When Draco next saw Lee, the back of his hand was bleeding from another detention. Hermione made sure to provide him with plenty of murtlap essence.

Draco had thought that the breakout from Azkaban might have humbled Umbridge a little, that she might have been abashed at the catastrophe that had occurred right under her beloved Fudge’s nose. It seemed, however, to have only intensified her furious desire to bring every aspect of life at Hogwarts under her personal control.

He took out his frustration towards her in the only way that he had: by redoubling his efforts for the DA.

Draco was pleased to see that all of them, even Zacharias Smith, seemed spurred to work harder than ever by the news that ten more Death Eaters were now on the loose, but in nobody was this improvement more pronounced than in Neville.

The news of his parents’ attacker’s escape had wrought a strange and even slightly alarming change in the Gryffindor boy. He had not commented on it aloud, nor had he said anything on the subject of Bellatrix and her fellow torturers’ escape. In fact, he barely spoke during DA meetings anymore, but worked relentlessly on every new jinx and countercurse that Draco taught them, his plump face screwed up in concentration, apparently indifferent to injuries or accidents, working harder than anyone else in the room. He was improving so fast it was nearly unnerving; when Draco taught them the Shield Charm, only Hermione mastered the charm faster than Neville did.

Draco would have given a great deal to be making as much progress at Occlumency as Neville was making in the DA. His sessions with Snape--which had been humbling from the very start--remained difficult, usually leaving him with a splitting headache, even if he did manage some success at defending his thoughts.

“I feel as if I never learned with Mother at all,” he panted, collapsing into the chair that Severus conjured for him after a particularly rough round. “I know she’s good at it, she told me that her sister taught her.” Draco sighed, rubbing his eyes and looking at his godfather wearily. “Did Bellatrix just not actually train her?”

Severus drew a long breath, his face unreadable. “As far as I am aware, she did so; I believe, at one point in their youth, your aunt felt enough fondness for Narcissa that she wished her to be better-able to shield her thoughts and feelings from those who might use them against her. This next summer, it’s plausible that the Dark Lord might ask her to continue your instruction, rather than allowing me to do so.”

Draco cringed at once. “Merlin, no. I don’t want to be anywhere near her.”

“You must conceal that sort of reaction at all costs,” Severus warned him at once, conjuring a goblet of water for Draco with a flick of his wand, and the teenager drank it down gratefully. “If she is given that task, you must work with her, and do so as if your intention is to protect the Dark Lord from discovery by the Order.”

The younger man sighed heavily, knowing that his godfather was right. He was absolutely dreading the end of the term, and returning to Malfoy Manor for the summer. Draco’s one chance was if Bellatrix was similar to Voldemort in not caring about the presence of a teenager in the house; if she completely ignored his existence, Draco would be delighted.

But then again...Draco had learned, the previous summer, more about how Bartemius Crouch Jr. had come into Voldemort’s service, and then how he’d wound up in Azkaban alongside Bellatrix, and her husband Rodolphus. He’d just been a child himself, hardly older than Draco was now. Age was not an issue in their pursuit of pureblood recruits for their murderous mission.

“We can pause for the day, if your head is hurting too much,” Severus said, and Draco gave a hum of gratitude. He glanced at Severus, watching the older wizard as he set his office to rights after Draco had staggered about some more during this session.

He had not brought up the lesson during which he had accidentally broken into Severus’ memories, but Draco was aching with curiosity. He had been so certain of who the woman had been...Draco had asked Hermione if she had photos of Harry’s family, and she’d shown him a beautiful leather photo album that Hagrid had apparently given to Potter in their first year. Hermione had it now because its final pages we were filled with memories from the four years they’d spent with Harry--but from the first pages, Draco had gotten his confirmation.

He’d known that Severus had been in school during the same era that many of the Order members had been, including Lupin, and Draco’s own relative Sirius. But he hadn’t known there had been any interaction between his godfather, and the woman who would become James Potter’s wife.

Clearly, though, the memories had been painful for Severus, and Draco did not wish to probe if it would upset his mentor.

Draco was startled out of his thoughts by the sudden crackle and hiss of the fireplace in the corner. The low flames, slowly dying down, leapt back to full form and burned a familiar, mystical green. Severus looked over as well, brow furrowing--and then his face cleared, and Draco made a sound of shock, when Lucius Malfoy’s face appeared in the Floo fire.

“Severus,” the older man said, sounding rather excited. “I need you to--oh.” He stopped, looking over at Draco in surprise. “You’re there, that’s--very good, I was going to ask Severus to go and fetch you, son.”

Frowning, Draco stood, crossing to kneel in front of the fire so that he was level with his father’s floating face. “What’s happened? Is Mother alright?”

“Yes, yes, we’re all perfectly--everyone is fine,” Lucius said dismissively. “But you’re needed at home, Draco.”

Draco’s frown deepened, his mind racing. “Wait a moment, I thought all of the Hogwarts Floo networks were locked down--how are you able to contact us here?”

Lucius merely chuckled, and behind him, Draco heard a faint sigh from his godfather. “I have special access permissions from Headmistress Umbridge,” Lucius replied loftily. “She and I communicate frequently.”

If he saw the frown that that put on Draco’s face--bloody hell, was Umbridge actually outright a Death Eater, and they somehow hadn’t realized it?--Lucius did not care, and went right back to his point. “We have an opportunity here, Draco...the chance to fulfill the Dark Lord’s bidding, and to demonstrate our fidelity beyond anything that we have been able to do in his service thus far.”

Draco looked back at Severus, who was staring back at Lucius with a complete lack of expression on his face. “Oh,” Draco said slowly, his mind racing. Merlin, why did Dumbledore have to be gone? “Okay, uh...what...what does this have to do with me? I mean, do you need Severus to come? Why did you want to see me?”

“The Dark Lord requires Severus to remain where he is,” Lucius said, shaking his head. “But because you did not come home at Christmas, your absence has come under discussion. I have been told extensively of your work for Headmistress Umbridge, and I commend you--he is very pleased with you for finding means of showing your obedience even while forced to be at Hogwarts. But tonight, he is on the move, and we must all be on hand to aid him. You must come home at once, Draco.”

Draco’s heart plunged into his stomach, which had turned into a pit of ice. “On--on the move?” he echoed, and he felt Severus step closer, reaching out to put a bracing hand on his shoulder. “What does that mean?”

“Come home,” Lucius reiterated, reaching out a hand toward his son from the green flames. “All will be explained.”


	11. Waiting in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Tonight could be the turning point for our cause.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early today since AO3 will be down for a few hours at some point this afternoon.
> 
> (And also because I live with a dumbass who took 40 minutes to get his ass outta bed for work and therefore thoroughly woke me up looool).

Before he could even think of following his father’s orders, Draco knew that he needed to get word to the others somehow. Maybe he couldn’t warn the whole DA that something was coming, but _someone_ had to know--Hermione and Ron, certainly, and Professor Dumbledore if possible.

Whether Severus was following his exact train of thought or not, he at least seemed to reach the same conclusion as Draco. “I’ll send him along directly,” he told Lucius, placing his hand back on Draco’s shoulder and pulling at him, urging the blonde to his feet. “He’ll go fetch his cloak first, then return to the Manor at once.”

Lucius nodded. Even in the green lighting of the Floo fire, Draco could see the almost feverish gleam of excitement in his father’s eyes, and it made the teenager’s stomach twist with fear about what could be about to happen. “Very good. Be quick.”

His father vanished and the fire returned to its nearly-banked state, the embers glowing softly with red and gold heat. Draco sucked in a breath, looking at his godfather fearfully. “I don’t--I have to tell the others, I can’t just _leave_ without them knowing.”

Severus nodded, and Draco was braced to argue against the older wizard offering to go and tell them himself--for one, he would not be well-received in Gryffindor Tower, and for another it would be suspicious if the wrong Slytherin spotted their Head of House anywhere near the members of the DA--but Severus surprised him.

“Dobby,” he called commandingly, and Draco startled at the sudden sharp _crack_ of Apparation. The house elf appeared, looking bewildered and perhaps afraid to be in the Potions master’s office.

“Dobby, it’s alright,” Draco said gently, dropping to his knees. The instant that the elf saw him, he seemed to relax a little, though he continued to tremble slightly.

“M-Master Draco,” he squeaked. “Dobby has been summoned--ca-can Dobby be of help?”

“Yes,” Draco said firmly, reaching to take one of Dobby’s delicate little hands. “I need you to go straight to Gryffindor Tower. Find Hermione and tell her that something is happening--I’m not sure what, but it won’t likely be good. Tell her that my father called me back to the Manor, and I’m going by Floo--I don’t know anything more than that, but I will try to get back in contact as fast as I can. Will you remember all that?”

“Of course, Master Draco, elves do not forget,” Dobby said, nodding and making his batlike ears flap with the motion. “Dobby will tell Miss Granger, Master Draco, he will go right now!”

“Thank you,” Dobby said warmly, and Dobby returned his smile before vanishing with another crack. Draco stood and turned back around; Severus had conjured a cloak for him with Slytherin’s colors. “Okay...wait, but what about--”

“I will ensure that Dumbledore is made aware,” Severus interrupted him. “As well as the Order. All will be handled. You must go now, Draco.”

Swallowing, Draco nodded and went to the fireplace. He grabbed a handful of the grey powder from its little dish on the mantle, stepping into the grate and sighing quietly before he flung it. “Malfoy Manor, drawing room.”

In a swirl of green flames, Draco was carried away, watching Severus’ face and his office spin away into nothingness.

Landing, Draco immediately felt as if the air was ten degrees colder. He stepped out onto the gleaming marble floor of his family’s enormous drawing room, and found that both of his parents were there waiting there for him.

Narcissa stepped forward at once, taking both of his hands in one of hers and cupping his face tenderly with the other palm. “I’ve missed you, my son.”

A deep ache settled in Draco’s heart. By not coming home over the Christmas holidays, he had managed to distance himself--from the Manor, from his mother, and from the grief that he felt in seeing what it had become. “Why am I here?” he asked softly, unable to lie by returning his mother’s words. “What’s going on?”

Narcissa looked back at her husband, and Draco forced himself to follow her gaze, meeting his father’s eyes in person for the first time since the previous summer.

Lucius looked simultaneously exhilarated, and deeply on-edge. “The Dark Lord,” he said, his voice low and vibrant with anticipation. “He believes that tonight will be the night when he finally eliminates Albus Dumbledore. He intends to kill that meddlesome old fool at last.”

The world seemed to waver from under Draco’s feet, and he was truthfully surprised that he wasn’t swaying where he stood. “He--but--wouldn’t that...expose his return?”

“If Dumbledore is removed, then no one else lives who could possibly stop the Dark Lord,” Lucius replied, his tone triumphant. “If he succeeds tonight...then there is no more need for secrecy. The Dark Lord will ascend, and take back the authority that was meant to be his all along.” He stepped forward, reaching out to put his hand firmly on his son’s shoulder, and Draco steeled himself in order to stay put. Every muscle in his body wanted to jerk violently away. “Tonight could be the turning point for our cause, Draco.”

There were footsteps behind them, and Draco turned, half-expecting to see Voldemort himself approaching; but the figure that appeared in the drawing room was a woman, gowned in black and with thick, wild hair that fell over her dark eyes as she paused at the sight of Draco standing beside his parents.

“Nephew,” Bellatrix Lestrange murmured, and Draco had to use all of his willpower to suppress a shiver at the husky pitch of her voice.

In one of the corridors of the Manor, there were portraits of relatives, many of them ancestors, but many others still a bit relevant. Draco had grown up seeing Bellatrix’s portrait in that corridor, the tall black frame elegantly carved with snakes, with _Torjus Pur_ written at the top and her name in cursive script on the bottom. The Bellatrix in that portrait was young, maybe in her early twenties, her black hair curly but controlled, standing with a regal sense of self, and a beauty that every Black family member possessed, though there had always been...something unsettled in those black eyes. Something that always made a slight chill go down Draco’s back.

Now, seeing Bellatrix after so many years in Azkaban...she scarcely looked like that portrait anymore. Her skin was nearly stark white, her face gaunt from hunger and insanity and lack of sunlight. Her hair was unruly and tangled, her body a bit skinnier than was healthy.

But those eyes were the worst; feverish with insanity, glimmering with sadism.

This woman was Voldemort’s most favored Death Eater, his most loyal lieutenant. Narcissa had remarked once that Bellatrix must truly love Voldemort, and Draco could tell just how true that assumption was. No one in their right mind would torture a pair of Aurors into insanity and then go to Azkaban gleefully, if it wasn’t more than just a cause that they were loyal to.

Her hated her. From the very second their eyes made contact, Draco hated her more than he hated anyone else, besides Umbridge and Voldemort himself. He felt sick just being in the same room as her, and his fingers twitched slightly, wishing he could go for his wand right now.

But with great effort, he held himself back. He wasn’t strong enough to face her in a duel, and he still had to play the dutiful spy. So as Bellatrix came forward to greet him properly, he gave her a small bow, as was still customary to many pureblood families. “Aunt Bellatrix. I’ve heard...many things.”

“All good things, I know,” Bellatrix replied, smirking a little, before she reached out, boney fingers sliding under his chin to tilt his face back up to her. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you, Draco. You’ve grown into quite a handsome young man; though you clearly favor my sweet sister here.”

“Thank you.” _Stop touching me, you bitch_. “I’m glad to see you out of Azkaban. Mother’s missed you very much.”

It was the perfect thing to say. Bellatrix’s smile softened ever so slightly, showing something like real affection, and her eyes darted to Narcissa, who smiled back. “As did I, nephew. Now we’ll be a proper family again.”

Lucius cleared his throat, drawing the others’ attention back to himself. Draco was surprised to see that there was a hard edge to his father’s mouth as he returned Bellatrix’s gaze, before softening as he looked once more at his son. Perhaps he was not as fond of his sister-in-law as he claimed to be. “We must go,” Lucius told him. “I need to return to the Ministry, and you’re going to come with me.”

“Why?”

“I will explain once we’re there,” his father replied, already moving toward the fireplace. “Come, Draco.”

He looked at his mother, confused, but she simply smiled at him, gesturing for him to follow. Draco schooled his face into a neutral expression, managing not to frown outwardly, and joined Lucius in the fireplace as the older man grabbed Floo powder and took them away in a swirl of emerald flames.

They emerged in the main Atrium, and Draco blinked a little at the sudden flurry of noise and movement. It was far busier here than the mausoleum-like atmosphere at Malfoy Manor.

Lucius was walking already, and Draco hurried to catch up. “What’re we--”

“Not yet.” His father did not look at him, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he strode purposefully into one of the winding side corridors until they reached the lifts. A house elf stood inside wearing the uniform of a Ministry-employed elf, and he kept his eyes respectfully downcast as the Malfoy men entered the gilded box. “Law Enforcement offices.”

The lift took off with a faint grating sound, carrying him them up and over several floors. When they disembarked, Draco continued following his father, trying not to look nearly as confused as he felt.

At the reception desk for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Lucius paused, radiating an air of impatience as if he knew where he needed to be and had no wish to be slowed down. “I have a meeting with Mr. Thicknesse,” he said pompously, and the woman sitting at the desk merely nodded, wide-eyed, and gestured for them to continue on their way. Draco peeked back at her as they went on down the hallway, but she did not turn to watch them go. Whether she had no suspicions at all, or was too afraid of Lucius Malfoy to dare question him, the teenager couldn’t be sure.

When they reached the office door that was marked _P. Thicknesse_ , Lucius entered without knocking or even calling out a greeting. Draco startled at the action, edging in after his father in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Mr. Malfoy.” The man sitting at the desk looked remarkably unperturbed at having them barge into his office. Draco stared at him, bewildered, and flinched slightly when Thicknesse--at least, he assumed it was the man himself, as he was in the office and appeared to be at ease there--looked over at him. “Ah, you’ve brought your boy along.”

“Yes, it’s....a father and son outing,” Lucius said lightly, and Thicknesse merely smiled, nodding absently. “Now, Pius, you recall what our ‘meeting’ is about today, I’m sure?”

“Yes, yes,” the other wizard said, his tone oddly light and his face rather vacant. “Yes, all is as you instructed...I’ve made sure that my grate is linked to the Floo network that you specified...the security system that monitors Ministerial Floos is disengaged, and my office will remain unlocked when I leave for the day.”

Draco’s heart was pounding, and he felt as if there was sandpaper in his mouth.

“Excellent,” Lucius said confidently. “You’ve done your part well, Pius. You will be rewarded.” He crossed to the window, taking a seat comfortably as Thicknesse made a vague sound of gratitude. “Draco, make yourself comfortable. The Ministry will close soon enough.”

Moving on numb feet, Draco went to sit beside his father, staring at Thicknesse. “He’s....he’s under the Imperius Curse, isn’t he?” he asked softly. He hadn’t whispered, yet Thicknesse gave no sign that he had heard the question. He merely leaned forward, resuming working on the papers that were scattered across his desk.

Lucius made a noncommittal sound. “Indeed. It’s a unique degree of use--allowing him to continue his job to satisfactory performance, while ensuring that he does what we need him to.” Looking over at Draco, he smiled slightly. “I’m sorry that it’s been...a less communicative year, for you and I, son. Professor Umbridge has kept me updated on how well you are doing, academically and otherwise. I’m quite pleased with you, Draco. You are making your mother and I so proud.”

Draco wanted to vomit. “Thank you, Father.”

Within an hour, the sounds from beyond the office indicated that other Ministry employees were departing. Thicknesse seemed to have forgotten that they were in his office. He tidied his desk, gathered his briefcase and cloak, then left the office. There was no tell-tale sound of the lock clicking. Beyond the dark wood, Draco could hear other members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement exchanging pleasant farewells and well-wishes amongst themselves.

Gradually, the floor fell quiet.

After a long spell of silence, Lucius murmured something, and his wand tip flared with a brieflight. Whatever the spell determined, Lucius nodded with seeming contentment. “It’s time.”

He rose, going to the fireplace. Reaching into his cloak pockets, he withdrew what appeared to be one of the longer tail feathers from a screech owl--Draco didn’t recognize the hints of color on it, so he wasn’t sure if it was one of their family’s birds--and he cast it into the grate, adding a pinch of Floo powder and muttering the destination.

“What does that mean?” Draco asked, hearing himself speaking in a near-whisper without meaning to.

“A summons.”

Draco didn’t know what to make of that answer, but he was fairly certain that he didn’t want to know, or be involved in anything that was about to take place. But he had to...not just because his father would be outraged if he tried to leave, but because whatever was going down here tonight, Dumbledore would need to know every detail.

The fireplace flared back to life, and Draco gasped softly as green fire illuminated the room. Figures were coming through--multiple of them, walking through in a single file line, enough that Thicknesse’s reasonably-sized office abruptly felt very small. Draco startled backwards as the space filled quickly, his eyes darting from face to face, taking in the present appearances of the many Death Eaters who had been featured in the Daily Prophet’s article about the Azkaban breakout: Dolohov, Avery, Crabbe Sr., Jugson, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Macnair, Lucius, Mulciber, and Rookwood.

Lastly, his aunt emerged, somehow managing to emanate more darkness by herself than all of the men before her together.

The flames died down behind her, and Draco pressed himself back against the wall beside the window, staring in shock at the Death Eaters who had infiltrated the Ministry. His eyes leapt from face to face, his mind battling against the urge to give in to the horror that was washing through him. He could not risk it showing, even a flicker of trepidation.

“Is he here?” Bellatrix murmured, eyes on Lucius as he crossed the room, opening the office door and peering out into the now-unlit lobby of the Magical Law Enforcement department. “Do we know, Lucius? Is Dumbledore here?”

Draco swallowed, trying desperately to moisten his tongue enough to speak. But Lucius answered, not even glancing over at his son. “We know that he will be. We simply need to locate him, and notify the Dark Lord of where to find him. We need to move quickly, lest Dumbledore detect that something is amiss.”

Without another word to her brother-in-law, Bellatrix slipped out of the office and away, and the others followed her swiftly. Draco watched them go, then jolted slightly as his father turned to him, gesturing impatiently. “Come, Draco.”

For a large party, the group moved with an eerie lack of sound. Draco stayed near the end of the line, close enough for his father to be sure of his following as they made their way through the Ministry with what seemed like a chaotic blend of purpose and confusion. Draco had no idea what Bellatrix was seeking, but she moved as if she would recognize her target when she saw it, and nobody questioned her.

They went down several floors--Draco was not sure at all how eleven people fit into the lift, but they did, and it wasn’t even particularly uncomfortable--and then emerged in a darkened corridor that Draco had never been in before. At the far end, there was only an unmarked black door; the sight of it filled him with dread. But Bellatrix began striding towards it as if she had meant to come here all along, and the rest followed willingly. Draco swallowed, feeling as if he might pass out, and hurried along at his father’s heels.

The black door swung open at Bellatrix’s approach, and she led the others over the threshold. They entered a large, circular room. Everything here was black, including the floor and ceiling — identical, unmarked, handleless black doors were set at intervals all around the black walls, interspersed with branches of candles whose flames burned blue, their cool, shimmering light reflected in the shining marble floor so that it looked as though there was dark water underfoot.

And then, the instant that the door they had come through closed behind them, the wall around them began to rotate, the doors turning into a strange blue-black blur.

Bellatrix turned her head from side to side, seemingly either listening, or sensing something. Draco watched her warily, wondering if it was some sort of strange link to Voldemort that she was acting on. After a long moment, she straightened her shoulders and walked towards one of the doors, and the others followed wordlessly once more. The next door opened, and they made their way inside slowly until at last Lucius and Draco stepped through, closing it behind them.

This room was larger than the other, dimly lit and rectangular; the center of it was sunken, forming a great stone pit some twenty feet below them. They were standing on the topmost tier of what seemed to be stone benches running all around the room and descending in steep steps like an amphitheater.

There was a raised stone dais in the center of the lowered floor, and upon this dais stood a stone archway that looked so ancient, cracked, and crumbling that Draco was amazed the thing was still standing. Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or veil which, despite the complete stillness of the cold surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though it had just been touched.

The Death Eaters spread out slowly, all of them beginning to descend the stone steps one or two at a time. Bellatrix was scanning the far walls of the room, seemingly, searching for another means of entrance; the archway and its fluttering veil did not appear to be of any concern to her.

Draco, however, felt as if he could not tear his eyes from it. He made his way carefully down the tiers, no longer staying close to his father’s side--if Lucius was concerned for him, he said nothing. When Draco reached the stone bottom of the pit, he looked down, registering the hollow echo of his footsteps as he crossed the dais.

The pointed archway looked much taller from where he stood now than when he had been looking down on it from above. Still, the veil continued to sway gently, as though somebody had just passed through it. Draco had the strangest feeling that there was someone standing right behind the veil on the other side of the archway. Gripping his wand very tightly, he edged around the dais, but there was nobody there. All that could be seen was the other side of the tattered black veil.

Abruptly, Draco froze where he stood; he had heard something. There was faint whispering, murmuring noises coming from the other side of the veil. He swallowed, attempting to make his tongue work in order to ask who was there, who was talking--but nothing emerged.

It was multiple voices. He could hear _people_ , speaking quietly to one another, as if there was a group just out of sight beyond the fluttering black fabric. Edging closer, until he was less than a foot from the stone arch, Draco cocked his head to listen closer.

His heart nearly stopped.

“Potter?”

Draco said it so softly, almost airlessly; none of the Death Eaters roaming the room around him even registered that he’d spoken. His father wasn’t looking his way, nor was his aunt. Draco reached out unsteadily, putting a hand against the uneven stone surface of the archway, staring at the veil as it rippled as if in response to his voice. As if in answer. As if Harry was there, mere centimeters away, and waiting for him to reach out and find the other boy--

Draco wasn’t sure how he had stopped paying attention to the happenings in the rest of the room, but his awareness was brought crashing back when someone collided with him. His father, Draco realized--Lucius was pushing him down and to the side, off of the dais. And there was suddenly so much _noise_.

Looking around wildly, Draco gasped as he began piecing together what was happening all around him. There were more people now--real people, physically present, not just voices--and they were not all Death Eaters.

Some faces he recognized instantly and his heart leapt into his throat, joy and terror clashing together as Draco saw Ron, and Hermione, and Neville and Luna and Ginny all running down the wide stone steps, firing off jinxes and hexes left and right to drive the Death Eaters back.

Others he also knew, but struggled to remember the names of momentarily--the dark-skinned Auror, Shacklebolt--Remus Lupin, of course he recognized their former professor--a woman with short, spiky hair that was a shocking shade of bubblegum pink, and a man that he somehow knew without being sure of how he knew it, he just connected the face and name--Sirius Black, his own cousin.

The DA had gotten his warning and they had come to help, and they had notified the Order as well--whatever Voldemort had planned for tonight, it was going to be stopped, Draco’s heart was thundering with relief--

Lucius turned and raised his wand, but the pink-haired woman had already sent a Stunning Spell right at him. Draco did not wait to see whether it had made contact, but dived off the dais out of the way; if it had hit, then his father was only stunned, and he didn’t have time to fear or to check. The Death Eaters were completely distracted by the appearance of the members of the Order, who were now raining spells down upon them as they jumped from step to step toward the sunken floor.

Through the darting bodies, the flashes of light, Draco caught sight of Neville crawling along the stone floor. He dodged another jet of red light and flung himself flat on the ground in order to reach the Gryffindor boy.

“Are you okay?” he yelled, as another spell soared inches over their heads.

“Yes,” said Neville, trying to pull himself up.

“And the others?” Draco twisted on his belly, trying to find the other DA members, trying to find Hermione in the mess. _Merlin, don’t let her die--_

“I think they’re all right—we were all still standing—” The stone floor between them exploded as a spell hit it, leaving a crater right where Neville’s hand had been seconds before. Both scrambled away from the spot, and as he tried to get back up, Draco’s foot made contact with something round and hard and he slipped—he saw Alistair Moody’s magical eye spinning away across the floor. Its owner was lying on his side, bleeding from the head, and his attacker was now bearing down upon Neville: Dolohov, his long pale face twisted with glee.

“Tarantallegra!” he shouted, his wand pointed at Neville, whose legs went immediately into a kind of frenzied tap dance, unbalancing him and causing him to fall to the floor again. “Now, you filthy little blood-traitor--”

Sirius hurtled out of nowhere, rammed Dolohov with his shoulder, and sent him flying out of the way. Neville stopped jerking, and to Draco’s unending relief Ron appeared, grabbing the other boy’s arm and helping him stagger upright and away.

Now Sirius and Dolohov were dueling, their wands flashing like swords, sparks flying from their wand tips—and across the room, Draco saw the pink-haired auror fall from halfway up the stone steps, her limp form toppling from stone seat to stone seat, and Bellatrix, triumphant, was running back toward the fray.

“Get the others and get out!” he heard Sirius yell as he rushed to meet Bellatrix, and Draco had no idea who the older man was speaking to--Draco himself, or any of the other teenagers present. He did not see what happened next: Kingsley swayed across his field of vision, battling with the pock-marked Rookwood, now maskless; another jet of green light flew over Draco’s head, and he dropped to the ground, rolling to avoid it.

He could see Ron still working to heave Neville up the steps, the larger boy’s legs continuing to jerk and shake in a strange almost-dance. Luna had her arm around Ginny, trying to guide the red-haired girl up as well--even from across the room, Draco could see that she was staggering, one foot at a horribly odd angle, the ankle no doubt broken.

Behind him, there was a cry that made his blood run cold, and Draco whirled back around, watching in numb shock as Hermione appeared, sprinting across the dais directly in front of the archway and veil. Draco saw Sirius duck Bellatrix’s jet of red light, laughing at her as they dueled. “Come on, you can do better than that!” he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The next jet of light that she fired off would have, without a doubt, struck him in the center of the chest--but Hermione had collided with him, and the pair of them went rolling over the edge of the dais and onto the dusty stone floor below it. Draco felt the air freeze inside his lungs, his mind unable to process how close he had just come to seeing her killed.

“ _Dumbledore_!”

Draco turned again, looking up to where Neville’s shout had come from. Directly above them, framed in the doorway from the circular room that led to this one, stood Albus Dumbledore, his wand aloft, his face white and furious. Draco felt a kind of electric charge surge through every particle of his body—they were saved.

There was another streak of light, and Draco ducked, his stomach convulsing as he saw Hermione fall. A Stunning Spell, she’d only been stunned--Dolohov had hit her, but then he saw Dumbledore and his bravado crumpled, and he turned to flee like the coward he was.

Draco moved forward in an awkward half-crawl, crouch, getting his hands under Hermione’s arms and pulling her out of sight behind one of the stone outcroppings that lined the dais. A hand grabbed his arm, but before he could go for his wand, Draco nearly melted with relief as he recognized Lupin’s face inches from his own. The pink-haired Auror was beside him, blood trickling down her face from the spell that Bellatrix had hit her with, but her eyes were bright and lively.

“Not the circumstances I’d have liked, but--nice to meet you, cousin,” she whispered, looking at him even as she helped Lupin pull Hermione’s unconscious form closer. “We’ll talk soon!”

“I--what?” Draco blinked rapidly, and then his brain managed to connect the dots, linking a name to the face. “Oh-- _Tonks_! Yes, good--okay--”

He stumbled back, almost crab-walking to find different shelter--if even one Death Eater saw him helping Order members rescue a Gryffindor student, then his cover was blown--and Draco’s heart plummeted as he realized that Dumbledore’s arrival hadn’t stopped the dueling entirely. Ron was still on his feet, trying to make his way up the steps while Macnair bore down upon him. Draco aimed his wand, hoping that it appeared as if he was trying to help stop Ron as he fired off a Shield Charm, just long enough for the Gryffindor to scramble up to the doorway and join the others in escaping.

And then he heard his aunt’s voice ring out, taunting and cruel. “Well, well, well, well, well--Look what a fine godfather you were, cousin!” Jerking his head up, Draco saw Bellatrix sneering down at Sirius as the man struggled back to his feet, no longer laughing, no longer looking excited. There was blood at his temple where he had hit his head on the way down after being pushed by Hermione, no doubt saving his life; but he was angry now, the way his face twisted was obvious enough. “Couldn’t even protect your precious boy from my master!”

“Shut up,” Sirius snarled. “Harry was just a child! He suffered enough!”

“Suffered!” Bellatrix shrieked with laughter, though there was no amusement in her tone. “He didn’t know the meaning of the word! Whereas I, the Dark Lord’s most faithful, his most powerful servant, I suffered in Azkaban, just as you did. But unlike you, I served knowing my Lord would come back, and come back he did, after he tortured sweet wittle Hawwy to death.” Her mouth stretched into a cruel smile. “Oh, how he screamed for you, Sirius--”

“ _I’ll kill you_!” Sirius charged after her, and she ran, cackling like this was all some stupid game--and Draco was running before he even registered that he was moving, legs pumping as he scrambled up the stone benches after his cousin and his aunt, hearing jinxes and curses being yelled behind him.

Bellatrix followed a different route, and Draco did not know if she was aware of where she was going, or if she was simply moving; but within minutes, they were stumbling back into the Atrium. Draco tripped a little as he entered the more open space, the air a little freer than it was in the room with the archway. Ahead of him by several feet, Bellatrix was sprinting towards one of the fireplaces--but Sirius waved his hand, the spell he used too low for Draco to hear.

There was no mistaking the cry she let out, though, or the way that she lost her footing and struck the floor, stopped in her tracks by the force of the Cruciatus Curse. Draco halted as well, dropping to his knees and scrambling to one side, pressing himself against the wall as he watched, transfixed, as Sirius wielded the torture curse against his cousin.

Beyond that first cry, Bellatrix cut off any sounds, twisting around to stare back at Sirius with her heavy eyes; the only sign that she was in pain was the faint tremor in her bottom lip.

And then, abruptly, it felt as if the air itself shifted around them. A charge filled the space, making the hair on Draco’s arms stand on end. He sucked in a breath, and felt as if his lungs did not inflate.

“ _You have to mean it, Black._ ” The voice seemed to reverberate through the Atrium, and Draco was torn between wanting to scream, and wanting to clasp his hands over his ears and hide from it. “Y _ou despise her...you believe that she deserves it...you know the spell...use it..._ ”

From where he was huddled, Draco saw the fear leave Bellatrix’s expression. He saw the instant that she was no longer in pain, but once more triumphant, once more the one in control.

And then he registered that there was one more person in the Atrium.

He opened his mouth, whether to cry out or to warn Sirius, Draco wasn’t sure--but then, between one breath and the next, Dumbledore was there as well, only feet away from where Voldemort suddenly stood.

Draco froze, barely able to breathe. The Headmaster’s gaze cut towards him for what seemed like a fraction of a heartbeat; enough that Draco knew that he was going to be safe, but it did not draw Voldemort’s attention to his presence.

Voldemort raised his wand and sent a jet of green light at Dumbledore, who turned and was gone in a whirling of his cloak; in the next second he had reappeared behind Voldemort and waved his wand toward the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The statues sprang to life at once. The green spell that had been meant for him struck the wall and ricocheted, collapsing part of the ceiling. As Draco watched, wide-eyed, a chunk of marble collided with Sirius’ back and he fell, seemingly unconscious.

The goblin and the house-elf scuttled towards the fireplaces set along the wall and vanished, and the centaur galloped at Voldemort, who vanished and reappeared beside the pool. The wizard statue darted to the side to shield Draco where he sat, blocking him from view no matter where Voldemort might move as Dumbledore advanced on him, and the golden centaur cantered around them both, awaiting Dumbledore’s need of it.

Behind Voldemort, Bellatrix scrambled on all fours into the nearest fireplace, and from his hiding place Draco saw the green fire consume her, spiriting her away to safety.

“It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly. “The Aurors are on their way--”

“By which time I shall be gone, and you dead!” Voldemort spat back. He sent another Killing Curse at Dumbledore and missed again, instead hitting the security guards desk, which burst into flame. Dumbledore flicked his own wand. The force of the spell that emanated from it was such that Draco, though shielded by his stone guard, felt his hair stand on end as it passed over him, and this time Voldemort was forced to conjure a shining silver shield out of thin air to deflect it.

The spell, whatever it was, caused no visible damage to the shield, though a deep, gonglike note reverberated from it, an oddly chilling sound. “You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” Voldemort called back, his scarlet eyes narrowed over the top of the shield. “Above such brutality, are you?”

“We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,” Dumbledore replied calmly, continuing to walk toward Voldemort as though he had not a fear in the world, as though nothing had happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit—”

“There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” Voldemort snarled.

“You are quite wrong,” Dumbledore countered, still closing in upon Voldemort and speaking as lightly as though they were discussing the matter over drinks. Draco almost felt scared to see him walking along, undefended, shieldless. He wanted to cry out a warning, but his inhuman guard kept shunting him backward toward the wall, blocking his every attempt to get out from behind it. “Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness—”

Another jet of green light flew from behind the silver shield. This time it was the centaur, galloping in front of Dumbledore at that moment, that took the blast and shattered into a hundred pieces, but before the fragments had even hit the floor, Dumbledore had drawn back his wand and waved it as though brandishing a whip.

A long thin flame flew from the tip; it wrapped itself around Voldemort, shield and all. For a moment, it seemed Dumbledore had gained the upper hand.

And there were voices echoing through the hall, far more voices than there should have been. Draco twisted between the wall and his stone guardian, trying to peer farther along the Atrium hallway to find the source of the new voices. In his peripheral vision, he saw the Shield Charm vanish; Voldemort was there, clearly visible, for a split second, looking around at the interruption as well with furious scarlet eyes.

The Atrium was filling with people. The floor was reflecting emerald-green flames that had burst into life in all of the fireplaces along one wall, and a stream of witches and wizards was emerging from them, wearing various Auror and Ministerial robes over their nightclothes.

The wizard statue that had been guarding him suddenly retreated back to its place in the fountain, and Draco looked around wildly, trying to understand what was happening.

There were people passing him--Tonk, he saw her flash of shockingly bright hair, and Shacklebolt. They ran right past him and reached Sirius’ side where he was just now stirring back to consciousness. Draco watched as they grabbed Sirius’ arms and bolted for one of the fireplaces on the other side of the Atrium hall, where there were no Ministry employees spilling out. There was a flash of green fire, seemingly unnoticed by the newcomers in the rush of confusion, and then Sirius was gone, along with the two Aurors.

Draco saw the tiny gold statues of the house-elf and the goblin leading a stunned-looking Cornelius Fudge forward. “He was there!” shouted a scarlet-robed man with a ponytail, who was pointing at a pile of golden rubble on the other side of the hall--the remains of the centaur that had been defending Dumbledore. “I saw him, Mr. Fudge, I swear, it was You-Know-Who, he just--Disapparated!”

“I know, Williamson, I know, I saw him too!” Fudge stammered, who was wearing pajamas under his pinstriped cloak and was gasping as though he had just run miles. “Merlin’s beard—here—here!—in the Ministry of Magic!—great heavens above—it doesn’t seem possible—my word—how can this be?”

A hand closed over Draco’s wrist, and he jerked against the hold at once, trying to break free--but it was his own father. He stared into Lucius’ face, bewildered. “What--”

“Come--come with me, _now_ \--” Lucius remained low, no longer radiating the confidence of a man who believed that his master would succeed that night, as he scrambled towards the same fireplace through which Sirius had just been spirited to safety by the Order. “You must go--you can’t be here, Draco, they can’t see you--”

When they reached the grate, Lucius all but shoved Draco into it. “Go back to Hogwarts,” he ordered, grabbing a fistful of Floo powder and pushing it into Draco’s hand. “If anyone asked--they shouldn’t, there’s no cause to, but if they do, you must deny ever being here--no matter what the mudblood and blood traitor say--you _were not here_.”

Draco nodded wordlessly--it was laughable, now, to imagine Ron and Hermione betraying him, but Lucius was right that he needed to be far away from this disastrous scene--and he threw the Floo powder, whispering his destination.

The last thing he saw before the green fire consumed his vision was Lucius attempting to run back the way he’d come from, before he was intercepted and seized by the oncoming Aurors.


	12. Surrendering to the Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You will need to play along as if enthusiastic about his plans, and any role that he assigns to you in them. If you are caught as being unsure in your loyalty--or worse, having been spying for my sake all this time--you know what the consequences would be.”

In all likelihood, Lucius had intended for Draco to return to Severus’ office. But it was the Headmaster’s name that he spoke, and when the emerald fire vanished, Draco stumbled out of the grate into Dumbledore’s study, breathing heavily. He looked around, but the room was, for a moment more, empty.

Draco made his way to one of the overstuffed armchairs near the desk, collapsing into it and staring blankly at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined every wall. His mind was reeling, and he could not seem to make his thoughts settle into any logical order.

There was a flare of light, making him jump half out of the chair; Fawkes appeared above his perch, landing gracefully on the bar and folding his wings regally against his body, black eyes intent on Draco as he examined the boy from across the room. Draco stared back at him, feeling comforted by the phoenix’s presence--partly just because it was Fawkes, Dumbledore’s bird and companion, and partly because he knew that it had to mean that the older wizard was not far behind.

Sure enough, less than a moment after Fawkes had arrived there was a rush of air, and Draco started again as a Portkey clattered into sight in the center of the study.

Hermione was the first to let go of it, taking an unsteady step away from the object--Draco wasn’t sure, but it looked like a piece of random debris from the Ministry Atrium--and looking around frantically. The instant she spotted him, she flung herself forward, and Draco stood quickly to catch her in a tight embrace.

“I can’t believe you’re alright,” she gasped. “I thought for sure--when Dobby told us--I was so scared--”

“It’s okay, I know,” Draco said reassuringly, letting go as she pulled away to look him over hastily, as if needing to see for herself that he was alive and unscathed. “I would’ve come and told you all myself, but I couldn’t risk it. But how--how did you even get there, to the Ministry I mean? And how did you alert the Order?”

“The explanation for all of tonight’s events is a rather complicated tale,” Professor Dumbledore interjected, and Draco turned then to see who else had come back with the Headmaster and Hermione; Ron was leaning against the desk, brushing dust from his clothing before he looked up at caught Draco’s eye, nodding at him in greeting.

“Where are the others?” Draco asked worriedly. “No one’s--”

“No one is badly injured, or worse,” Hermione said quickly. “It’s okay, we’re all--somehow, we all made it out okay. The others--Ginny and Luna and Neville, they went straight to the Hospital Wing, just some bruises and one broken bone. D-Dumbledore said that Ron and I needed to come here, with him--I assume to find you.”

“To reconvene with Mr. Malfoy, yes,” Dumbledore confirmed, conjuring several more comfortable chairs, and at his gesture of invitation they all sank into them. “But also to discuss what has transpired while it is still fresh in all of our minds. The Ministry, as you all saw, is now finally aware of the reality of Lord Voldemort’s return...which means that things are going to become significantly more difficult, now.”

“Difficult?” Draco echoed, frowning. “Isn’t it--I mean, isn’t it good that they know? We don’t have to fight in secret now, right? Hell, maybe they’ll finally take Umbridge away.”

There was a pause, and then Ron gave a tired little chuckle. “I think that bit’ll be covered already, mate,” he told Draco. “Assuming she makes it back out of the Forest, that is.” At Draco’s uncomprehending look, Ron glanced at Hermione, and she sighed heavily.

“Right, well, I suppose that’s the beginning of the story?” she asked Dumbledore with uncertainty, and when he nodded with an encouraging smile, Hermione drew a deep breath to continue. “Dobby did as you asked, he came and gave us your message. We...well, we tried to get down to Professor Snape’s office, because we knew you’d been in an Occlumency lesson and thought perhaps he’d know what to do.”

“Turns out it’s hard for Gryffindors to get to the dungeons undetected when it’s near curfew,” Ron tacked on, and Draco’s eyes widened. “Especially when one of us is Umbridge’s least favorite person at Hogwarts, after Dumbledore. No offense, Professor.”

“I consider it the highest of compliments,” Dumbledore assured him, eyes twinkling. “Miss Granger, please continue.”

“Right.” Hermione swallowed. “Well, the Inquisitorial Squad found us first and dragged us off to her office.” She wrinkled her nose, and Draco had to ignore the impulse to smile irrationally at the quintessential Hermione-ness of the expression. “That toad. She was so certain that we were trying to get to another DA meeting. She sent Crabbe and Goyle off to the seventh floor to try and catch more of us, and...”

Hermione went quiet, which instantly made Draco tense. When she didn’t resume speaking for a moment, Ron took up the tale for her. “Umbridge threatened to use the Cruciatus Curse on Hermione if she didn’t confess to the DA still meeting,” he said, his tone flat.

Draco’s mouth fell open. “She-- _what_? _Here_ , in the bloody castle, she would’ve--”

Hermione resumed speaking, seemingly drawing strength from the boys’ anger on her behalf at the near-miss with torture. “Well, I saw that she meant that, so I had to think fast. I just started lying--I told her that there was a weapon, on the grounds, that Dumbledore had left for us to use when we needed it. That we’d been going to get it when the Squad caught us.”

“It was brilliant,” Ron interjected, smiling at his best friend warmly. “She sounded so convincing--half-scared to death, half-defiant as hell. Even I believed her for a moment, and I was right confused about why I didn’t know we had this weapon thing.”

Hermione smiled faintly back at him. “I told her it was in the Forest, so that no students would stumble on it by mistake, and she said that we were to take her to it. As we were leaving, Crabbe and Goyle came back--they’d found Neville and Ginny bringing Luna along from Ravenclaw Tower, trying to find us, so they thought that proved the whole DA meeting bit. Umbridge told them to keep the others in her office until she got back, and we headed out into the Forest.”

Draco thought about the long, dark path that Hagrid had led him and Hermione down in order to find where he had hidden his half-brother, and his stomach twisted. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said softly, and Hermione shook her head at once.

“It worked out fine,” she promised him. “Well, I mean, it didn’t go as I’d intended; when we reached the clearing, Grawp had broken free from his ropes and disappeared.” Hermione nodded when Draco groaned softly. “Yes--but that’s its own problem for another day. Right then, I had no idea what to do, and Umbridge realized that I’d lied and tricked her out there. I think she might’ve snapped and tortured me anyway, just out of spite.”

“How did you--”

“Centaurs,” Ron cut off Draco’s interruption, looking bemused. “I don’t know what drew them to us, or if they’d been looking for Grawp, but they showed up, and...well, you know how Umbridge acts when there’s a ‘halfbreeds’ about.”

Draco’s eyes widened again. “She didn’t seriously insult armed centaurs in their _own territory_?”

“Oh, she did,” Hermione replied, snorting a skeptical laugh. “Said they were ‘creatures of near-human intelligence’ and that they had no business coming near her. And then when they didn’t leave, she tried to bind one with some kind of rope jinx and nearly strangled him.” She shrugged, looking unconcerned about Umbridge’s fate. “They attacked her and carried her off. Didn’t even look twice at Ron and me.”

“Delores Umbridge is now in the Hospital Wing,” Dumbledore concluded. “I don’t know for certain that she will ever entirely recover from her ordeal in the Forest; but regardless, I have written to the Minister informing him of her...accident, and requesting a Ministry escort come to collect and remove her from Hogwarts post-haste.”

“Thank Merlin,” Draco muttered, and the others nodded, smirking. “So then--what happened next?”

“Ron and I went back to the castle and found the others,” Hermione explained. “They were brilliant, actually--Ginny tricked Crabbe and Goyle into eating some of Fred and George’s Puking Pastilles, and when they became ill, they got away from them to come find us.” She smiled a little ruefully. “We, um...we actually snuck into Umbridge’s office after that. I mean, we knew she wasn’t coming back anytime soon, and we needed to know what was going on.”

Draco stared at her for a long moment, then snorted. “You’re barking mad, just as much as you are brilliant.”

She shrugged, though Draco did not miss that her cheeks pinked up slightly at the compliment. “We contacted Sirius, at the Order’s headquarters. Remus was with him. They told us to stay put, of course, but we heard was happening in the background--Snape was there, too, and we heard him tell them that Dumbledore was at the Ministry, and that was where the Death Eaters were, as well. They more or less told us to sit still and wait for news and then took off, to go and join the battle.”

Her expression shifted, and Draco smirked slightly. “You actually feel guilty for going despite them telling you not to, don’t you.”

“Well, they just wanted us to be safe,” Hermione said, fidgeting a little. “But we had no idea what was happening or why the Death Eaters were in the Ministry--and I was so scared that you were going to get killed--of course we had to go!” She heaved a sigh. “I couldn’t think of how to get there, but then Luna suggested the thestrals--and may I just say, I will never ride one of those things again unless I can see it--”

She paused, looking a little abashed and giving Draco an apologetic look. Shaking his head, he reached out to touch her hand, urging her to continue. “It’s fine. I can imagine how unnerving that would be. So you all rode to London...on thestrals?”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded and pressed on. “They took us straight to the visitors’ entrance and we went down into the Atrium...just in time to run into the Order members who had come. Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Kingsley...Kingsley Shacklebolt,” she added, at Draco’s confused expression. “He was the Auror who altered Marietta Edgecombe’s memory.”

Draco nodded his understanding, and she resumed. “Of course they weren’t thrilled that we had come, but they weren’t going to waste time trying to make us leave again--and then we found you downstairs, in the Department of Mysteries.”

“Okay,” Draco said slowly. “Alright, that fills in some spaces, but--what about the start of the whole mess? Why did tonight even happen?”

“Ah, yes--this segment of the adventure becomes my part of the tale,” Dumbledore said, flicking his wand to summon a tea tray with cups and biscuits enough for them all. “Please, refresh yourselves whilst I explain myself.”

He waited until the three teenagers had served themselves and begun eating, and Draco felt himself relax slightly as he abruptly registered just how hungry he had been. “You see,” the Headmaster began, adding a surprising number of sugar cubes to his own cup, “I had reached the conclusion that the only feasible way to bring Lord Voldemort’s return into the light--and to make our poor Minister face the truth of it--was to force the confrontation.”

“When--when the others arrived, the Death Eaters, my father said that they had known you’d be there,” Draco said, frowning. “Was that--was there a reason for that, or did you...”

“I planted the information that I would be there, alone, this evening, that is correct,” Dumbledore confirmed, smiling very slightly. “I realized that certain Ministry employees had been placed under the Imperius Curse in order to maintain eyes and ears within the institution, and therefore had only to let one of those individuals hear of my intentions, and then that information would be conveyed to Voldemort and his followers.”

He glanced at Ron and Hermione, a half-smile lifting the corners of his beard. “I had not intended on having such extensive backup when the moment came to confront him, but I cannot deny my admiration for the determination of ‘my’ Army.”

Hermione blushed again, this time with clear embarrassment. “I’m sorry that we got in the way,” she said quietly. “I just--I panicked, I...”

Dumbledore shook his head, giving her an understanding smile. “You knew that people you cared about were in potentially fatal danger. Your actions were solely founded in compassion and loyalty, and I cannot fault a Gryffindor for that.” Sipping his tea, the Headmaster shrugged. “And besides; we lost no one, and the ultimate goal--the Ministry learning the truth--was achieved.”

“But you said it will be more difficult, now?” Draco asked, nibbling on the edge of a biscuit. “Why?”

Professor Dumbledore’s expression became more somber. “We have taken away the element of secrecy that Lord Voldemort was clinging to; I know that had he succeeded in murdering me this evening, he would not concern himself with the Ministry knowing that he’s back, but he did not accomplish that. Therefore, he has both lost his greatest advantage, and he remains forced to contend with me as his one insurmountable enemy.”

He turned his gaze to Draco, fixing the blonde with such an intense look that he felt frozen for a heartbeat, staring back at the older wizard. “In addition...this will make your role as a spy substantially more dangerous, Draco. Hogwarts, and therefore you, will no longer be unimportant to Lord Voldemort. He will no doubt fear my trying to use you against him--you know that I never would, dear boy, but he does not think as we do. Therefore when you go home for the summer, you must proceed with the _utmost_ caution....and you absolutely _must_ maintain an iron grip on your mind. Practice your Occlumency as if your life depends upon it, for it just might before the end.”

“Does--does Draco really have to go home?” Hermione asked in a tiny voice. “Couldn’t we figure something out--keep him safe somewhere else, somehow?”

Dumbledore’s face softened, but he shook his head. “I would if I could, in a heartbeat, Miss Granger. But that would only draw Lord Voldemort’s scrutiny more acutely upon him.”

“It’s okay,” Draco said gently, reaching to take her hand. Her fingers wrapped around his at once in return, squeezing tightly. “I’ll be careful. He’ll never suspect a thing from me, not even a fraction of a doubt.”

Behind their little circle of armchairs, the fireplace surged with green fire again, startling the teenagers. Draco watched in surprise as a woman stepped out of the grate--Tonks, his cousin, now cleaned up and looking much better than she had after Bellatrix had taken her down in the veil room--followed by a massive, shaggy-haired black dog with bright grey eyes.

“Padfoot,” Hermione said in surprise, putting down her tea and releasing Draco’s hand to stand and face the pair. “Are you mad--what are you doing here?”

“He will be perfectly safe, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore reassured her. “I am back, fully reinstated and properly returned to my full authority within the school. Within this office, as in few other places in the world, we are guaranteed privacy.”

“Uh--I’m sorry, what’s--?” Draco began. As he watched, the dog turned and trotted away around the corner of one of Dumbledore’s book cases. Seconds later he appeared on the other end--or rather, Sirius Black emerged, tying a robe around himself as he came out of his Animagus form, making Draco splutter off into silence.

Well, that explained quite a few things from the past few years.

“So,” the older man said with a polite smile, coming over and offering Draco his hand. “We meet at last, cousin. Rather overdue, I’d say, though I’m glad for the pleasanter--sort of--circumstances.”

Draco stared at him for a long moment, then finally got his brain back on track and returned the handshake with a strangled little laugh. “Ah--right, yes, it is. Uh, a pleasure to meet you. And--and you, as well,” he added, looking over at Tonks, who had moved to perch on the edge of Dumbledore’s desk.

She shot him a wink, and a little wave. “Wotcher, little dragon.” At Draco’s surprised look, her round face softened into a kind smile. “Aunt Narcissa called you that in a letter she wrote to my mother the day you were born. They didn’t continue communicating after that, though.”

“Well, the hour draws late,” Dumbledore remarked, looking around at the little group over the top of his spectacles. “It is a great blessing that we’ve lost none of our numbers--minor injuries have been sustained, but by morning’s light that will all be behind us. Sirius--I must thank you for complying when Kinglsey and Tonks came to remove you from the Ministry. Had you been arrested again, it would have resulted in your loss. Fudge would not withhold the Dementors, if he ever again had you in custody.”

Sirius sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and nodding tiredly. “I don’t like it, the being cooped up, but I get it. I’ll go back and stay put.”

“We’ll come and visit you again soon, Sirius,” Hermione promised quietly. “I’m going to spend most of my summer with the Weasleys, like I did at Christmas. We’ll come see you as often as we possibly can.”

The older man smiled faintly, reaching out to give her a one-armed hug. “You’ve a good heart, Hermione. Don’t you fret over me. Grimmauld Place is hardly cheery, but it’s substantially better than being locked in a cell, eh? At least I can communicate a little more freely with my loved ones.”

Across the room, Fawkes gave a low call, and Dumbledore sighed. “The Minister will be along soon...now that the truth has been exposed, it seems I will once more be considered a reputable and trustworthy source of confidence and advisement.”

“Barmy codger, turning face like that so quick,” Tonks muttered irritably. “I hate going into work every day, knowing that I have to pretend that I don’t have any skin in the game.” She sighed, sliding to her feet and moving to hug each of the three teenagers goodbye. Draco was startled to be included, but he returned the embrace willingly, smiling faintly at her as she then headed back to the fireplace, waiting for Sirius.

“Just a moment,” Sirius told her, and she nodded, speaking quietly with Ron and Hermione as Sirius drew Draco away from the group. “Look, Draco, I...I wanted to thank you in person,” he said softly, and Draco blinked at him, confused. “For all that you’re doing to help the Order,” Sirius clarified. “You’re doing something far braver and more intimidating than I think many of us have ever had to face--and at your age, too. I want you to know how valuable it is.” He sighed, running a hand through his long, dark hair. “I’m sorry for all that you endured last summer. Hermione and Ron told me about it at Christmas. You’ve...truly suffered.”

Draco swallowed hard, feeling a stinging behind his eyelids and a burning in his throat. Fuck, he did not want to begin crying, not after all of this. “I--I’m sorry, too,” he said quietly. “I can’t even imagine the grief you’ve gone through, over...over Harry.” His voice shook as he said the name, and he saw the sorrow that passed through Sirius’ eyes at the mention of his late godson. “I’d give anything for you to have him back.”

Sirius smiled, his features tight with pain. “Yes...I would have liked a little longer with him.” Tonks called his name softly, and Sirius sighed again. “Right, low on time. Look--I’ve got something I want you to keep, Draco.”

From within the robe he wore, he drew out a small package and handed it to Draco, who unwound the covering and found a small rectangular mirror. “It’s a twin,” Sirius explained, before he could ask. “I’ve got the other one.” He smirked a little. “James and me--Harry’s dad--we used them when we were in school. We’d use them to talk when they’d put us in separate detentions.” They both chuckled; Draco had the impression that everything he’d ever been told about Sirius Black was true. He and James Potter must have truly been the predecessor to the Weasley twins. “Merlin only knows what sort of trouble that James could’ve gotten into if Dumbledore hadn’t had his Invisibility Cloak before he died.”

Sirius began to back away as Tonks called his name with more urgency. “You use it when you need help--it’ll connect you directly to me, and therefore to the Order,” Sirius went on as Fawkes made more soft noises, quietly sounding an alarm that they were out of time.

Draco nodded, watching Sirius as he entered the fireplace with Tonks. The two of them offered one last smile, and then vanished in emerald flames.

Fawkes stopped keening, and then uttered a soft, less agitated chirp, and Dumbledore nodded at the bird as if in thanks. “I shall soon need to address the Minister, but he is not bearing down upon us just yet.” Turning to the three students, Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger--I’m certain you would both benefit from a night’s deep rest, and I imagine you’d like to see for yourselves that your fellow DA members are well and recovering. Please consider spending the night with them under Madam Pomfrey’s care, rather than returning to Gryffindor Tower.”

“We will,” Hermione said, and it seemed as if the evening’s chaos had finally caught up to her, leaving her worn and exhausted. She looked at Ron, who nodded in agreement. “Um--is Draco--?”

“I shall send him along for the same; our good matron will see to it that you all receive a nice, peace-inducing Sleeping Draught once you have finished checking on your peers. But I must have a final word with Mr. Malfoy, first.”

“Okay.” Hermione hesitated, then turned back to Draco and hugged him one more time. Draco had the fragmented thought that he’d now been hugged more times in the last hour than he had been since coming back to Hogwarts. “See you soon.”

Ron offered him a weary salute, which Draco returned with a bemused smile before the two Gryffindors left the Headmaster’s office. Draco turned back towards Professor Dumbledore, accepting his gestured invitation to resume his seat in the circle of armchairs. His tea had gone cold, but a tap of Dumbledore’s wand restored it to a soothing temperature.

“This summer...” Dumbledore paused for a long moment, gazing solemnly at Draco, and the teen felt what he could only describe as the weight of a war settling over his shoulders as he met the kind, sad blue eyes. “This summer will be immensely hard, Draco. More so, if you can imagine, even than the previous one was. You will once more be back home among them--and this time Lord Voldemort’s temper will be far more untenable.” The Headmaster stroked his fingers absently down the length of his silver beard. “The larger magical community is going to be hostile towards your family, because as I’m sure you must have realized....”

“My father was arrested,” Draco whispered. “I saw. When he ordered me to come back to Hogwarts, he tried to run, but the Aurors grabbed him.” He swallowed. “So he’s...”

“He will be placed in Azkaban, but I have no doubts that Lord Voldemort will arrange for another escape. Even if he is displeased with his followers, he needs their numbers, and your father unfortunately remains rather naively devoted.” Dumbledore flicked his wand, and his grate sparked into life with a fresh fire, the flickering gold flames soothing some of the cold that had settled into Draco’s bones. “I’m terribly sorry, Draco. You are going to need to carefully guard your thoughts at every moment of every day.”

He looked back at Draco, and the teen froze with his cup half-raised to his lips, caught in the intensity of his stare. “You will need to play along as if enthusiastic about his plans, and any role that he assigns to you in them. If you are caught as being unsure in your loyalty--or worse, having been spying for my sake all this time--you know what the consequences would be.”

Dumbledore reached out, resting one hand gently on Draco’s shoulder. “I tell you all this, though I know you know it already, not to frighten you. Please trust that if I had any means of shielding you from it all, of keeping you far away from him--”

“I know that, sir,” Draco told him quietly, his tone firm and sincere. “I came to you in the first place knowing that, and I know the risks that I’m taking. I can’t say I never get scared or want to back down, but...I’ve just got to keep plowing on. There’s nothing else for it.”

The Headmaster smiled at him, a strange sort of fondness in his gaze. “You know, Draco, I do believe that you would have found yourself in an easy friendship with young Mr. Potter, had circumstances differed.”

Draco couldn’t reply to that. He swallowed, struggling to find his voice again. “Professor, do you think--do you think that Voldemort is going to try to use me directly? Despite how young I am, I mean. In his...plans.”

Dumbledore’s voice was grave. “Yes, I am quite sure of that. Especially after your father’s arrest. Lord Voldemort may know that you do not mimic your father’s fervor in his service, but he will know that endangering you for his cause will thoroughly punish Lucius for his errors. And Voldemort no doubt knows that you will do what it takes to protect your parents.”

He paused, taking a long breath, and behind him Fawkes gave a low cry. The Minister was coming. Dumbledore nodded, rising, and Draco followed suit. “I’m sorry, my boy, for all of it. You must be prepared to cooperate fully, no matter the horrors that are asked of you.”

  
* * *

The term spring term ended in a confusing, gut-wrenching blur of events, some good and some bad. Umbridge remained in the Hospital Wing until arrangements were made, within a day or two, to relocate her to St. Mungo’s for more long-term care. The DA members who had gone to the Ministry were able to return to class the following day, and none of them breathed a word to indicate that they had been present at the Ministry for what was now a well-publicized crisis that ended with the confirmation that Lord Voldemort had returned.

Whispers flew after the Prophet released an article in which Fudge acknowledged this news; along with admitting to Voldemort’s rising, he also conceded that Dumbledore had been reinstated as Headmaster, Umbridge was “retired” from her role as both Headmistress and High Inquisitor, and Hagrid was no longer wanted by the Auror department, and would return to his teaching post at Hogwarts.

It was less publicly shared, no doubt due to the Ministry being embarrassed by it, but Draco learned soon enough that the Dementors, too, had shown their true colors. They had revolted and abandoned Azkaban, most assuredly going to join Voldemort’s ranks--and with them, multiple Death Eaters who had been arrested during the battle at the Ministry vanished once again. Draco put down the letter from his mother, reading between the lines and sighing at the knowledge that his father would be back at the Manor when Draco returned for the summer.

He wondered if Voldemort would inflict physical punishment on Lucius for the debacle that had occurred that night, or if it would all be psychological. Draco wondered what his own part would be, in the Dark Lord’s retribution against Lucius.

The general public knowing the truth about Voldemort now certainly did heavily impact one area of Draco’s life immediately: now every student who had Death Eaters for parents was no longer hiding a secret that some cherished and some despised. Rather, the entire student body seemed to know who among the Slytherins could no longer be trusted based on their parents’ ideologies and loyalties, and it was taking its toll.

“I’d so love to tell them all that Voldemort bloody well murdered my dad, there’s no more loyalty to him in this family,” Theo said bitterly, huddled by the Slytherin common room with Draco and Pansy. “But that starts all the questions about when, and where, and--and even though they’re all side-eyeing you just as badly, I know we can’t exactly confirm that he’s at the Manor.”

“No,” Draco agreed softly. “We can’t. And you can’t denounce him, anyway. You’ve remained one of my best friends through this year, and we were on the stupid Inquisitorial Squad together...if you spoke even part of the truth, even just your share of it, it would endanger everything.”

“I’ll not get you killed,” Theo said, sighing. “I’m sorry, Draco, you know I’m just...”

“I know.”

The strongest change that he had seen among his housemates, though, surprised Draco by showing itself in Crabbe. His father, too, had been arrested at the Ministry--and was now loose again, through the Dementors’ betrayal--but unlike Draco and the others, Crabbe showed not an ounce of shame or unease in the face of his classmates’ hostility at knowing the truth. He walked with more swagger than ever, and if he thought anyone was looking at him in an ugly manner, he would draw his wand or advance on them threateningly, until the students in general kept a wide berth around him in the corridors.

“You don’t reckon--it’s not possible that he’s joining the ranks properly, is it?” Pansy asked softly one evening, when Draco confided in her that Crabbe’s mounting aggression had him worried. “I mean--the Dark Lord’s not going to go making a Hogwarts student a real, marked Death Eater, is he, even if they support his cause as ardently as their parents do?”

Draco could only shake his head, staring into the fireplace and dreading, more with every passing moment, the return to London in a few days’ time. “I don’t know, Pans. I’d have said no without hesitation before, but...well, real evil isn't really to do with age, is it? We just need to keep an eye on him.”

Pansy swallowed, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Write to me, if he comes ‘round the Manor this summer,” she said quietly. “Just--let me know how things are. Vaguely, I know you won’t be able to write names or anything, just...”

“I will,” Draco promised, smiling tiredly at her. “You’ll be one of the few it’s safe to write to--even Theo’ll be risky, what with his dad. And...well, I can’t risk the others at all.”

“I can try to,” Pansy offered. “Just to keep them aware if you notify me that something significant’s happened, I mean--I’m sure I can find a way to get word to them both--Weasley and Granger.”

“They’ll be together for a good bit of time, so that may be plausible,” Draco allowed. “She’ll be staying with them some. Just--if you do, Pans, be so careful. We’d have absolutely no valid reason to be writing to them, not when our families think they’re just blood traitors, and...all of that.”

She nodded wordlessly, taking his hand and squeezing tightly. Draco knew that she knew him far too well; she would have seen the changing, the deepening, of his feelings towards Hermione. But he hadn’t commented on it yet--hadn’t even told her about the moment that they’d shared in the Room of Requirement, before Christmas--and Pansy did not ask him out loud, not yet.

The only really good changes were the return of Hagrid, and of Professional McGonagall. Draco was heading towards the Great Hall for lunch when a minor commotion broke out in the entrance hall--at a glance, it appeared that Ernie McMillan had accidentally antagonized Crabbe, and the Slytherin and Hufflepuff were facing off with wands drawn before Snape intervened.

Before he could label which House he was docking points from for the almost-duel, however, the front doors opened, and McGonagall strode in, walking with a cane.

“Professor McGonagall!” Snape said, moving swiftly to her side to assist her. “Out of St. Mungo’s, I see!”

“Yes, Professor Snape,” McGonagall replied, shrugging off her traveling cloak. “I’m quite as good as new. You two— Crabbe—Goyle—” She beckoned them forward imperiously, and they shuffled over, Crabbe looking mildly cowed at his outburst for the first time.

“Here,” Professor McGonagall said, thrusting her carpetbag into Crabbe’s chest and her cloak into Goyle’s, “take these up to my office for me.” They turned and headed away up the marble staircase, though Draco did not miss that Crabbe shot Ernie one last venomous look as he passed him.

“Right then,” Professor McGonagall went on, looking up at the hour-glasses on the wall. “Well, I seem to recall that Mr. McMillan here was among those who vocalized support for the opposition against our newly-outed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and our Ministry’s treatment of Dumbledore...I think that he ought to have fifty points for his share, and fifty points a piece to the others who were in that group, which I believe means several Gryffindors and a few Ravenclaws, too. What say you, Professor Snape?”

From Draco’s perspective, Severus looked unsure if he should be approving or offended by her declarations. “Oh—well—I suppose...”

“So that’s fifty for McMillan, the two Weasleys--I suppose it’s irrational to include their twin brothers, as they have departed from our ranks--and Longbottom, and Miss Granger,” said Professor McGonagall, and a shower of rubies fell down into the bottom bulb of Gryffindor’s hourglass as she spoke. “Oh—and fifty for Miss Lovegood, I suppose,” she added, and a number of sapphires fell into Ravenclaw’s glass. “Now, you were adding or removing some, too, I believe, Professor Snape....”

Before Severus could reply, through, a shower of emeralds fell into the Slytherin hourglass. Draco started, looking over at McGonagall, and to his shock he caught her send him a quick wink before she began making her way towards the Great Hall. “There you are, Severus, I’ve handled it. Now come along, help me to the head table, the end-of-term no doubt has the students all behaving madly, and I’ve a cane...”

Draco traded a quick grin with Pansy and Theo as the three of them began following the two professors.

But before they reached the Great Hall, Draco paused, feeling as though he had heard something. He turned his head, looking back down the nearest corridor--and there was Hermione, standing near the statue that blocked the tapestry-concealed alcove. She was watching him--not necessarily expectantly, but perhaps hopefully.

“Hang on, guys, I’ll be--” Draco turned back to the other two, and Pansy was already smirking. She shooed him on with a wave of her hand, and Draco smiled gratefully before he started along the corridor.

By the time he reached the tapestry, Hermione had stepped behind it, and Draco followed her into the small space, smiling faintly at her. “You’re alright, then?”

She shrugged, hugging her arms around herself. “It’s been rough, certainly, but for once my end of the whole mess is the easier one,” Hermione said, giving him a worried look. “We--those of us from the DA, I mean, we’ve been working to get people not to spread rumors or anything, but...well, you know.”

“I do.” He shrugged. “It’s just going to be how it is. You said it--we’re just switching roles. You were the one getting dirty looks all year while I played Umbridge’s bloody puppet...now, everyone’s going back to being scared of Death Eaters’ kids, and you’re the heroes who stood by Dumbledore’s side.”

“You’re one of us, too,” Hermione said fiercely, and Draco had to chuckle at the way her eyes lit up with that same old fire. “Don’t you dare let it get to you this summer, do you hear me? I expect you back here in the fall, intact and okay, and--and--”

Here her voice seemed to crack. Draco frowned, hesitantly reaching out to touch her wrist. “Hey. It’s going to be alright, I promise. Come on, Granger, I’ve made it this far, give me some credit.” He waited till she gave him a thin smile at that. “I’m....well, I’m not ready for this, because it’s going to be hell, but I’m going to get through it.”

Hermione nodded, her bottom lip quivering. “Just...stay safe,” she whispered finally, turning her hand over to interlace her fingers through his. “Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes.” He nodded, holding her gaze so that she would see how solemnly he meant it.

For a moment they stared at one another in silence; as the seconds passed, Draco suddenly thought very vividly of their mistletoe moment. Her expression was the same--just as intense and conflicted, and with the same hint of yearning brightening her gaze.

Then Hermione swallowed, her eyes dropping from his, and the tension seemed to fade a little. “If--if you find any means of writing to us, to let us know you’re safe--”

“I will.” Draco wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was disappointment, understanding, or just frustration at the entire situation. “I--you...you stay safe, as well. Please.” _For me._

She nodded, a tiny smile touching her lips before she looked towards the light lining the tapestry that hid them from view. She seemed to steel herself, and then bounced up onto her toes--Merlin, he constantly forgot that she was a good four inches shorter than he was--and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

And then she was gone, the tapestry falling back into place behind her, leaving Draco in the shadowy alcove with only the ghost of warmth from her fingers in his own, and her lips against his cheek, and a familiar scent of ink and old parchment that he forever seemed to affiliate with her.

  
* * *

Things at Malfoy Manor had changed significantly for the worse.

Although it would have been feasible to argue that Snape should have known and been able to warn Voldemort that Dumbledore’s presence at the Ministry was a trap, it was Lucius who had handled the whole business, and therefore it was Lucius upon whom the Dark Lord’s wrath fell--both for not realizing that it was a trap, and for getting himself and several of the others arrested before the Dementors released them again.

Lucius was present when Draco returned to the house, as he had anticipated; but his father had become a specter of a man, haunted by either his failure in his master’s eyes, or by his brief confinement in Azkaban. From what little Draco could glean, mainly through eavesdropping, the Dementors were only one element of the horrors of being imprisoned there.

He knew that it was only a matter of time before the spotlight of Lord Voldemort’s attention fell, cruel and unwelcome, on himself.

It was less than a week after coming back from Hogwarts that the other shoe fell. Draco ate his dinner in his rooms, as he always tried to do when he could get away with it; but no sooner were the dishes cleared away by an unseen house elf when the door opened, and Draco managed not to flinch when he saw his aunt standing in the frame.

She was smiling, which certainly didn’t bode well, and she beckoned for him with one hand. “Come, nephew...you are needed.”

Draco followed her down the stairs and into the drawing room. Depending on Lord Voldemort’s needs, sometimes it contained the Malfoy family’s elaborately carved dining set, or sometimes it was empty; tonight, the only furniture was the garishly throne-like chair that Voldemort himself occupied, seated before the crackling flames like some gothic emperor, flanked by his Death Eaters on either side.

Lucius had been demoted substantially, and now stood at the very end of one of the two rows, with Narcissa at his back--not a part of the line, not a fellow Death Eater, but at her husband’s side. Draco’s eyes swept to the other end; as usual, Severus stood at the Dark Lord’s right hand, but now his left side, where Lucius had been previously, was claimed by Barty Crouch, Jr.

Bellatrix crossed the room, moving to stand behind her master’s chair as if she were the queen behind his crown. Draco stopped walking, his eyes flickering back to his parents, but neither Lucius nor Narcissa raised their gazes to meet his.

“Come here, Draco.” His focus snapped back to Voldemort, who was gesturing for the teenager to approach him directly. Discomfort rippled down his spine, but Draco complied, inwardly rallying his walls with every ounce of willpower that he possessed, armoring his mind with the knowledge that his life--and the safety of so many who he cared about, now far away from him and this cold, soulless place--depended on his mental acuity.

 _Cleanse yourself of all emotion,_ he remembered Severus saying firmly, having drilled the last few Occlumency lessons in his head so intently that Draco felt like he had a real, proper handle on it now. _Allow yourself to feel absolutely nothing. Emotions complicate things. Emotions give away our true thoughts. If you shut down your emotions, Draco, will you be successful._

Easier said than done.

“Tell me, little Malfoy,” Voldemort said softly. “You have been raised to see things the correct way, have you not? Your parents, they have taught you our ways. The proper ways.”

Draco swallowed slightly, but he allowed himself to make eye contact with the man, his heart beating a bit too fast to be comfortable. “Yes, My Lord.”

Voldemort eyed him for a long moment, as if those slit-like pupils could see right through him, much like Dumbledore could. But where Dumbledore was kind and patient, Voldemort was cruel. If he felt like you were withholding information, he’d rip it right out of your head rather than wait for you to say something of your own free will.

“And what say you then?” he asked, voice deadly soft. “Your loyalties. Where do they lay, Draco?”

“With my family, My Lord,” Draco said, keeping his hands folded behind his back, digging his own nails into the palm of his hand. “I’m the only heir to the Malfoy name. I want to make my parents proud of me, always.”

“I see.” It wasn’t an outright lie, nor was it an outright truth, and Draco knew that Voldemort knew that. They were playing a game now, of cat and mouse, seeing which one of them would falter first. Draco was determined to make sure he stayed just a few step out of reach. “Then you are fully aware of your father’s failures at the Ministry of Magic? When we were promised Dumbledore, alone, and instead found him flanked by members of the Order of the Phoenix?”

Draco nearly twitched. It took every ounce of his willpower to not move. “...Yes, My Lord. I am very aware of it.”

“Lucius has greatly disappointed me, Draco. I would punish him, truly. But as Narcissa has so eloquently pointed out, Azkaban, even for a short time, can be punishment enough.” There was something in those red eyes, something he didn’t like, something he wanted to look away from, but he didn’t dare move. “However, I do feel it is time to see just how much you would like to prove yourself, little Malfoy. Lucius has praised you and your skills, and Severus has kept me informed of your goings about at Hogwarts. You are quite talented, Draco. Quite talented indeed.”

There was a small giggle nearby behind him, but Draco knew his aunt’s voice by now and thus did not jump as she moved up to him, her boney fingers sliding up his arm, her chin resting on his shoulder for a moment. When he risked a glance in her direction, her black eyes were glittering with excitement. “The Dark Lord wishes you to grant you the ultimate gift,” she said softly. “Join us, Draco. And I promise, you will be given power like none has ever seen for your own age.”

Join us. Draco’s stomach went cold, and he glanced at Voldemort again. “M-my Lord…?”

Voldemort stood then, looking like an imposing figure, dressed in black and his eyes nearly glowing. None of the other Death Eaters moved, but Severus was eyeing Voldemort with something akin to disgust. Lucius was staring at the floor, and Narcissa… She looked like she was holding back tears.

“I have a special mission for you Draco.” Voldemort strode forward, and his wand came out, sliding the point underneath Draco’s chin and forcing his head up so that when they were standing so close together, he could still look up in the Dark Lord’s evil gaze. “My special little weapon. You will be perfect for the role. But first, as to know fully that you commit yourself to me, to our cause...you will be granted the Dark Mark.”

It was only here that Draco faltered. His eyes widened a little, with surprise, with some fear, with a little bit of revulsion, but he was able to keep that particular emotion from being too clear. “The Dark Mark? S-sir, it is a high honor, but I am only sixteen--”

“Which means you are at the perfect age to receive it.” Voldemort smiled, though there was no warmth in the gesture, no happiness found in the expression. It was cold, calculated, devoid of anything that resembled humanity. “I need a good loyal man on the inside of Hogwarts next year, and you are the perfect person to fly under the radar. But you will need the Dark Mark, my boy. As a way to...truly show your loyalties.”

He wondered then, for a long second, if Voldemort knew the truth. If he knew Draco had defected from the ideology, if he knew that Draco was now actively working against him. But he saw nothing in Voldemort’s eyes that must have given himself away, only slight doubt, only some manic energy. Whatever Voldemort had planned, it was bigger than the Dark Mark.

It had to be something worth making Narcissa look like she was barely holding back her own grief.

Still, he knew better than to disobey. Refusing such “an honor” would surely blow his own cover, and Dumbledore had warned him that something like this might happen. Just imagining the look of pain on Hermione’s face if she had learned Draco hadn’t survived this summer after all…

He inhaled slowly, in an effort to not vomit. “Then I-I welcome it, My Lord. Thank you.”

Voldemort nodded slowly, and Bellatrix giggled again in his ear, fingers drifting down to touch his forearms. “Then bare your arm to me, Draco,” the Dark Lord said softly. “It is time for you to become one of my inner circle.”

Hating himself, wishing he was anywhere but here, Draco obeyed, rolling up the sleeve of his left arm, and presenting it to Voldemort.

There was no turning back.


	13. Understand What Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was one thing for a Death Eater’s son to come in and try to order him about on business for the Dark Lord...entirely another, Draco supposed, to see a sixteen-year-old boy bearing the terrifying symbol himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to everything going on in this story, this chapter will end up a bit canon heavy near the halfway mark. I know we promised to try and not stray too much into the original canon of the book series, but some things can't be avoided, and we're pretty heavy Narcissa Malfoy stans, so it's to be expected. We hope you enjoy this chapter regardless!

When Orion came by this morning with his copy of the Daily Prophet, Draco instantly knew something was a bit different. Carefully unrolling the newspaper revealed a small letter within, and tugging it out of the envelope, he saw Hermione’s now very familiar handwriting. While a part of him went a bit cold, his heart still skipped a beat when he realized she had taken the risk of writing to him.

_Dear Draco,_

_Please don’t be upset that I’ve sent a letter, I know it’s probably dangerous. But it’s been four weeks, and Pansy hasn’t had any news from you, and I got very worried for your safety. If you’re able to send along any news at all, please, I would like to know you’re alright. Or, if you’re able, in another week or so the Weasleys and I will be going to Diagon Alley to receive our school supplies after our O.W.Ls results are sent to us. I hope to at least catch a glimpse of you._

_Yours,_

_Hermione_

Draco sighed a little, immediately taking the letter to the fireplace and dropping the paper into the crackling orange flames, watching it burn away. As much as he appreciated her concern, he knew better than to leave the letter out in the open. If anyone here saw it, or even suspected something was off…

“Nephew.”

Nearly jumping out of his skin, Draco straightened so quickly he got a headrush, turning around sharply to find Bellatrix was waiting for him at his bedroom doorway. Her black eyes were locked onto him with a little smirk on her face. “The Dark Lord requires your presence.”

 _Oh no._ Draco’s insides went cold again, but he refused to let that show on his face. “Ah…Alright. Yes.” He followed Bellatrix out of his bedroom, heading through the corridors of the Manor to the drawing room, where Voldemort was sitting beside the fireplace. He was toying with his wand as if lost in thought, but the moment they entered, the man looked to them with a cold smile, as Narcissa entered from another doorway with a tray of tea for the afternoon.

“Ah, Draco,” Voldemort said softly, allowing the teenager to cautiously approach, pausing about five feet away in an effort to keep his distance without being too open about his reluctance. “I was hoping to discuss your plan for what we have discussed.”

“O-of course, My Lord.” Draco had been dwelling on the plan for weeks, but he seemed to have finally latched onto something that could buy him the time he needed in an effort to work with Dumbledore while at the castle. “I was thinking, perhaps, I could find a way to help some of the others infiltrate Hogwarts by means of a Vanishing Cabinet.”

“A Vanishing Cabinet,” Voldemort repeated. “Quite smart, Draco. But a Vanishing Cabinet requires a twin, otherwise it wouldn’t work properly.”

“Y-yes, I know. But if I can find a twin to the one at Hogwarts, I could spend time fixing that one, as the one at Hogwarts was broken last year due to...an incident.” Said incident involved Montague being shoved in head first by the Weasley twins and sent to who-knew-where. But now that he was thinking about it, Draco would have to contact Montague to ask him if he could remember his experience. If he could locate the twin…

“Very well.” Voldemort smiled again, the expression still so utterly lifeless that it made Draco nearly tremble, before his eyes flicked to something beyond him, and the hissing sound of Nagini making her appearance made Draco’s spine straighten in fear. The massive snake slithered over to her master, yellow eyes filled with malice as she flicked her tongue at the teenager in the room, and he dutifully avoided looking at her directly. “As soon as you find out where the twin is, Draco, then you may proceed. Do keep us updated on your progress. You are dismissed.”

Draco bowed slightly, eyes flicking briefly to Narcissa, whose face was a careful mask devoid of emotion, but there was something in her light blue eyes that made him wonder what she thought about this whole thing. Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to himself, Draco left the drawing room, making a beeline back to his bedroom and shutting the door behind him, body shuddering with relief that he was still unsuspected.

After a long moment, he returned to his desk, tugging out some parchment and a quill to hurriedly write down a letter to Pansy.

_Please let Hermione and the rest know that I’m alright. I’ll be in Diagon Alley within the next week. Some things are going down right now that I can’t speak about, but I’ll see you when I can, I promise._

_Yours,_

_Draco._

A soft whistle, and Orion fluttered down to his shoulder. “Take this to Pansy,” he said softly, folding the parchment carefully and holding up, allowing the eagle owl to clamp his beak down on it. “Do not let yourself be followed.”

Those orange eyes blinked down at him, haughty and proud, but Orion gently nudged his temple with his own head before taking off out the window. As he disappeared into the distance, Draco’s inner forearm twinged slightly, and he glanced down at it, knowing what was hidden just underneath the pristine black shirtsleeve.

This was going to be a very hard year.

* * *

It took a few days, but Draco was able to request permission to go see Montague at his house a bit away. Bellatrix, for whatever reason, had volunteered to be his “chaperone”, as he was still a minor and thus not able to use magic. He absolutely despised being anywhere near her, but had to allow her to touch him for Side-Along Apparition, and when they reached the Montague household, Bellatrix went off to stay out of sight, while Draco went to ring the doorbell, putting on his most charming persona to Mrs. Montague as he requested a chance to see his former classmate.

Thankfully, the discussion was very informative, and when the visit was over, Draco went back outside to meet with his aunt. “Well?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as they walked along the road to where they could Disapparate. “Did you find the twin?”

Draco’s mouth felt dry. “It’s in Borgin and Burke’s. The shop down in Knockturn Alley, they have a Vanishing Cabinet too, and it’s the twin to the one in Hogwarts. Montague would hear snippets of conversation in the shop while he was being transported between there and Hogwarts. I’ll need to go there this week to examine it.”

“Perfect. In fact, I think we can use that to our advantage.” Bellatrix smiled, before grasping his upper arm and whisking him away for home.

Later on that week, as promised, Draco’s O.W.Ls results were sent to the Manor, as well as his school list for his books. Narcissa was very pleased to find he had all O’s, as promised, and even Lucius finally seemed to perk up a bit at knowing that his son had succeeded in accomplishing his goals. “Your N.E.W.Ts aren’t far behind,” he said that afternoon, clapping Draco on the shoulder with pride. “Keep it up with your studies, son. Not that you might need them much longer. The Dark Lord will reward you with whatever you choose. I’m sure he would be happy to give you anything, so long as you do not...fail him…”

Draco bit back his own comments, forcing himself to smile back at Lucius. “I’ll try, Father. I promise.”

A couple of days later, Narcissa and Draco were allowed to leave the Manor to go to Diagon Alley to pick up his supplies, as well as for him to go to Knockturn Alley for him to examine the Vanishing Cabinet. Unfortunately, when they arrived, Diagon Alley had changed for the worst. Most of the crowds that they had been used to were now gone; people were huddled together, speaking in low tones, glancing over their shoulders for any sign of danger. A few shops had been shut down and boarded up, clearly abandoned, and in their places were booths with phony protection charms, their seedy sellers trying to prey on the fear around them. It made Draco feel a little sick, and he swallowed a bit, steeling himself in preparation for anything that might happen.

After collecting his books and refilling his potions supplies, as well as a few special treats for Orion -- and Hedwig, as Draco knew the snowy owl would be at Hogwarts too, and he didn’t want to make her feel out of place -- Draco and Narcissa went to Madam Malkin’s next for his robe fitting.

“You’ve grown so tall,” Narcissa said softly, as Madam Malkin’s herself had him in his robes and was pinning it this way and that.

“Well I had to grow up sometime, hadn’t I?” His tone came out a bit more gruff and closed off than he meant it to, and he could see Narcissa’s smile looking a bit more sad. “Mother, honestly, if shopping like this was going to make you nostalgic, I could have come by myself.”

“Now dear,” Madam Malkins said gently, “no one should be wandering about by themselves now. Far too dangerous, you know.”

Well, yes, that was a given, there was danger everywhere. But this had nothing to do with what he was talking about. It rather surprised him some days, to realize how much he had truly grown up. Gone were the days of his youth, so arrogant and full of himself, thinking his family high and mighty and right. That Draco was a distant memory, of a life he could barely remember, and now he could fully understand why Hermione had socked him in the nose their third year. He would have done the exact same thing if given the chance.

Leaving the dressing room when Madam Malkins gave the okay, he wandered over to a nearby mirror, taking a few moments to full examine himself. He had truly grown taller over the past year, no longer a boy, closer to a man. And his hair, it had grown long enough to pull back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, and it now was beginning to drape over his shoulder, a few stray strands hanging in his face stubbornly. He wondered, distantly, if it made him look too much like Lucius.

Suddenly the door behind him opened, and his eyes darted to the mirror, finding the Weasleys had walked in; Ron, Ginny and Molly, with Hermione bringing up the rear. At once, all four people looked rather relieved to see him, and he risked a very fast smile at them, before fixing his expression and turning away as Narcissa came out of the dressing room.

“Oh,” Molly said, looking briefly surprised. “Hello, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa glanced at Molly as though she didn’t know why the redheaded witch was addressing her, as Madam Malkins came to Draco and started to adjust his sleeves, while he kept a discreet eye on everything happening behind. “Hello,” she said, her voice a bit cool, but thankfully not hostile. “It’s that time of year again, I suppose.”

“Oh yes.” Molly managed a smile, almost tentative and hopeful. “Ron’s growing like a weed, unfortunately. We’ll always have to try and keep up with his growth spurts.”

Suddenly, Draco felt the sensation of a pin accidentally grazing his left arm. Where it normally would never concern him, the freshly branded mark still burned, and he yelped, ripping his arm away from the started robe shop owner and grabbing at it. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “Just… Old injury, very sensitive.”

“Of course, dear,” Madam Malkins replied. “My apologies, I should have warned you. But you’re all done, so no more pins, I promise.” She smiled, helping Draco to disrobe, before she folded the garments by magic and had them packed away in a brown paper sack. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said, looking to Draco with some concern. “I think we’re fine now. Thank you.” As she went to pay, Draco moved to leave the shop, discreetly brushing up against Hermione so he could take her hand, giving it a fast squeeze in reassurance, before he walked out the door.

Once all of his school things were obtained, they made their way to the point where Knockturn Alley connect with Diagon Alley. A quick glance around made sure that no one was watching them; there was little to fear, really, but it would do better to remain unnoticed by others who would assume--correctly--that they were acting on Death Eater orders. Draco’s skin crawled as they made their way along the darkened cobblestone path, pointedly not looking at the shadowy shops and skulking bystanders that they passed.

Borgin & Burkes occupied a corner lot, its sign hanging above the front door and creaking softly as it swayed. It hadn’t been repainted for decades, and looked just as grungy as the shopfront itself did.

Draco entered, striving to keep a neutral expression and show no tension in his posture as the bell above the door made a sad-sounding note to announce them. Narcissa followed him, looking mildly less composed; there was wariness in her eyes as she surveyed the dusty items lining the shelves. Draco walked forward with purpose, pausing at the counter. “Mr. Borgin?”

From the back room, he heard movement; after a moment, the shop owner appeared, squinting a little suspiciously before recognizing Draco, and smoothing out his expression. “Young Mr. Malfoy...and Madam Malfoy. A pleasure, as ever...”

Behind Draco, he heard his mother make a vague sound of polite response; Draco knew that Narcissa was no doubt uncomfortable in the little shop of Dark magic and artifacts. For all of her support and loyalty to her husband, this was not Narcissa’s world. She was aristocat, a proud daughter of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, raised to be a hostess and a mistress of a noble home.

Draco wondered, if Narcissa actually confronted her own discomfort with her husband’s ambitions, if she would ever choose to escape from it all.

Refocusing, he fixed Borgin with an impassive stare, trying to emulate his father’s general attitude of self-assurance and indifference towards others. He did not want to waste time or energy putting up with the slimy wizard’s efforts to shmooze and simper for approval from a Malfoy. “I am here for a specific item. And while I would imagine it is not listed for sale, you will be very well-compensated for keeping it safely--and discreetly--here in the shop, and allowing my...colleagues....access to it when needed.”

The would-be attempt at a smile faded from Borgin’s face, and Draco knew that the man was likely reevaluating his impression of Draco as the blonde stood before him. The last time Draco had been in this shop, he had been twelve-years-old, enamored with the notion of power and convinced of his father’s infallibility, and intrigued by every single object in the place.

If he had had any concept of what the future held, Draco did not know what he might have done differently that day. His father had come in to secret some of his more questionable possessions out of the reach of any Ministry raids that targeted the Manor. Draco almost wished he had done something to ensure that they’d been caught, after all.

“And what item would that be, Master Malfoy?”

It made him cringe a little, hearing himself being addressed similarly to how his father would be--with fear, mostly--but Draco knew that he needed to assert himself as one of the Death Eaters. He let his gaze scan throughout the shop, until he found the dark, tall shape that he’d once examined curiously next to the back windows. “The Vanishing Cabinet. What is your price for keeping it out of sight and accessible?”

Borgin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Draco held his gaze, unwavering and unyielding. He had planned out this conversation--or monologue, perhaps, as he wasn’t intending to negotiate with the other wizard--and Draco had practiced until he felt confident in his ability to seem cold, efficient, and unwilling to be argued with.

“No matter,” he said, as if Borgin had taken too long to reply. “We’ll pay it. I need your word that you will keep the Cabinet safe and secured for me.”

“Well,” Borgin said slowly, seeming a touch reticent about treating a teenager with the same deference that he would offer the older Death Eaters who he was already familiar with. “I suppose that arrangement is acceptable...as long as the compensation is generous...I couldn’t guarantee anything.”

“No?” Draco said, arching his eyebrows irritably. He had known it would likely come to this, and if there was anyone besides his mother in the shop with him, he feared he might have lacked the courage to continue with this charade. But he had to see this through. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.”

He unbuttoned his left sleeve and rolled it up to the elbow, turning his arm so that the dim torchlight illuminating the room fell clearly upon the still-slightly-reddened skin where the Dark Mark was emblazoned.

As Draco had expected, Borgin went still, now looking very frightened. It was one thing for a Death Eater’s son to come in and try to order him about on business for the Dark Lord...entirely another, Draco supposed, to see a sixteen-year-old boy bearing the terrifying symbol himself.

“Tell anyone,” Draco continued, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family friend. He’ll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.” He loathed threatening the man, even if Borgin was a despicable git, but it was necessary. And, according to Bellatrix at any rate, Greyback was planning to be a bully to ensure that Draco’s proposed plan succeeded.

Borgin stuttered. “There will be no need for...”

“I’ll decide that,” Draco cut him off, and the man fell dutifully silent as if his tongue had been jinxed. “We’ll be off, now. Keep this one safe and out of sight. Others will come in as needed to ensure that it’s here, and ready for me.”

“Perhaps you’d like to just take it with you?” Borgin suggested, and Draco knew that he was quailing at the thought of Ministry officials ever spotting wanted Death Eaters coming in and out of his shop. Borgin was no doubt on thin ice already in such difficult times, with Dark artifacts being used to sew fear and inflict harm on Muggles and non-purebloods.

“No I wouldn’t.” Draco kept his voice flat and hard, not to be trifled with. In his own ears, he sounded enough like Lucius that he almost hated himself. “Just don’t sell it. Do you understand?”

“Of course not...sir.” Borgin made a bow as deep as he would offer to Lucius himself, and Draco’s stomach tightened with discomfort.

“Not a word to anyone, Borgin,” he reiterated, then turned to leave the shop as if it was beneath him to remain near the other wizard, now that he had handled the business that he had with him. Narcissa followed him back onto the narrow street, her eyes sweeping the Alley to ensure again that they were not being watched before she paused, reaching out to place a hand on her son’s arm. Draco stopped, looking at her questioningly.

“You’ve...you’ve changed a great deal, little dragon,” she murmured. “You’ve grown up so much. It’s surreal, seeing you be so like your father.”

Draco didn’t know if she considered that a compliment or not, but in the role he was playing, he would be expected to see it as such. “I imagine so. Shall we eat before we return home, Mother?” When she just nodded wordlessly, eyes wide and intent on his face, Draco offered her his arm, and they continued on their way.

* * *

That evening, Draco walked through the gardens outside of the Manor, watching his mother’s peacocks wandering along the tops of the hedges that lined the footpaths that criss-crossed the grounds. He’d been captivated by the property as a child; feeding the peacocks with his mother’s supervision, riding his tiny toy broomstick while the house elves looked on, and exploring the foliage until he was summoned back inside to be cleaned up for supper.

Now, the estate felt as if it was permanently under the shadow of cloud cover, and there was a chill in the air that simply didn’t go away. Draco pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, pausing near the wrought iron gate and staring out in the darkness beyond. The desire to run away and vanish was nearly constant now, buzzing under his skin like a surge of adrenaline. Draco closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of the grass and flowers, counting silently in his mind until his heart seemed to calm again.

The sound of footsteps crunching over the gravel of the lane made Draco turn--to his shock, he saw his mother striding between the hedges, heading for the smaller gate that would let her out of the Manor grounds. Draco opened his mouth, half-thinking to call out and ask her where she was going--but he snapped it shut again when he realized that she was not alone.

Bellatrix was rushing after her, her voice hissing. “Cissy! You mustn’t, come back here at once--it’s none of Severus’ concern, you can’t--”

“Go back inside, Bella, I’m doing this, and I won’t be stopped.” Draco watched in amazement as his mother slipped out of the gate, then paused, looking around as if to confirm that they were alone. Bellatrix reached her side, but just as she flung out a hand to catch Narcissa’s arm, the blonde woman Disapparated, taking Bellatrix with her.

Draco hurried across the lane and over to the same gate, bewildered. He wouldn’t have been able to follow--but Bellatrix had said Severus’ name. It had been some time, but Draco had seen where his godfather lived--an ugly old house, inherited from his Muggle father, and he supposed that even if his mother and aunt weren’t there right now, perhaps Severus would know what was going on...

He hesitated, glancing back towards the house. But he was secure in his position as a spy--no one doubted him, not enough to voice it, and Lord Voldemort did not suspect him. Surely he was not bound to the house, not if he could give a viable reason for leaving.

Setting his jaw, Draco ran back to the house, letting himself into the kitchen. Moving as silently as he could, Draco crept through the back hallway towards one of the smaller rooms on the first floor--a study that was rarely used, and that had come to represent Severus in Draco’s mind, as it was the one room in the Manor where the Floo network was linked directly to the other man’s home.

But he couldn’t risk turning up right in Severus’ drawing room, not if his mother and aunt were there. Luckily, this study was also where they kept several prepared Portkeys, and Draco had only to eye the items on the desk until he remembered which one was designated to take its user to the corner nearest Spinner’s End.

He tapped the decorative piece with his wand, feeling it vibrate lightly as it was activated, and Draco placed his fingers on it before it whisked him away.

Portkey travel took getting used to. Even having used it often in his life, Draco was still rather disoriented every time, and it took a second to clear his head before pocketing the Portkey for later use, and making his way along the row of townhouses until he reached the one that simply had a plain black “S” painted on the mailbox.

“Cissy, you must not do this, you can’t trust him —”

Draco startled at the sudden shrill sound of his aunt’s furious whispering, and he pressed himself back against the dark fencing that ran along the length of the housing row. He could see them now; they had Apparated into the shadows on the opposite side of the street, and were hurrying across the narrow lane. His mother moved with almost-frantic purpose, while Bellatrix followed her, face visible and twisted with fear and fury as she pleaded with her sister.

“The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn’t he?” Narcissa countered, reaching the house marked with the “S” and silently opening the little gate.

“The Dark Lord is... I believe... mistaken,” Bellatrix panted, and her eyes gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that they were indeed alone as she made the bold statement. Draco sneered; he wondered how she would react if Voldemort himself heard her utter such a thing. “In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord’s—”

“Go back to the Manor, Bella!” Narcissa snapped, and to Draco’s astonishment, she drew her wand from beneath her cloak, holding it threateningly in the other woman’s face.

But Bellatrix merely laughed. “Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn’t —”

“There is _nothing_ I wouldn’t do anymore!” Narcissa breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there was another flash of light. Bellatrix stumbled back from her sister as though she had been burned.

“ _Narcissa_!” But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Her footsteps crunched over the gravel as she entered the little garden before Severus’ home, where a dim light glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs room. She had knocked on the door before Bellatrix, cursing under her breath, had caught up. Together they stood waiting, panting slightly, breathing in the smell of the dirty river that was carried to them on the night breeze.

After a few seconds, they heard movement behind the door and it opened a crack. Draco couldn’t see entirely clearly, but he could tell that it was Severus who peered out at the two women standing on his doorstep.

Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale that she seemed to shine in the darkness; the long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a drowned person. “Narcissa!” Severus said, opening the door a little wider, so that the light fell upon then both. “What a pleasant surprise!"

“Severus,” she said in a strained whisper. “May I speak to you? It’s urgent.”

“But of course.” He stood back to allow her to pass him into the house. Still wearing her hood over her face, Bellatrix followed her sister inside without invitation.

“Snape,” she said curtly as she passed him.

“Bellatrix,” he replied, his thin mouth curling into a slightly mocking smile as he closed the door with a snap behind them. Once he was sure that they were inside and the door closed, Draco padded forward and slipped through the gate himself, easing his way over to the window where the curtain was just parted enough to give him glimpses of what was happening within.

He could hear them still, so there was no Silencing Charms in place; but they were too muffled. Draco smirked to himself, digging into his cloak pockets for an item that he had been gifted, before their flight from Hogwarts, by the Weasley twins. They’d warned him the Extendable Ears were a prototype, so not guaranteed not to have issues--but for the most part, they made eavesdropping substantially easier. Draco placed one end against the cold glass, and the other in his ear, the sounds from within becoming clearer.

The three adults were in a tiny sitting room, which had the look of a dark, padded cell. The walls were completely covered in books, most of them bound in old black or brown leather; a threadbare sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table stood grouped together in a pool of dim light cast by a candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place had an air of neglect, as though it was not usually inhabited.

Draco saw Severus gesture, and his mother moved to the sofa. She threw off her cloak, cast it aside, and sat down, staring at her white and trembling hands clasped in her lap. Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly, not taking her gaze from Snape as she moved to stand behind Narcissa. “So, what can I do for you?” Severus asked, settling himself in the armchair opposite the two sisters. It took turning his face back and forth as the dialogue continued, but Draco was able to see all three of them relatively clearly.

“We... we _are_ alone, aren’t we?” Narcissa asked quietly.

“Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail’s here, but we’re not counting vermin, are we?” He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him and with a bang, a hidden door flew open, revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man stood frozen. “As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests,” Severus said in a lazy tone.

Squinting through the slitted curtains, Draco saw the man creep, hunchbacked, down the last few steps and move into the room. His left hand was caressing his right, its silver surface gleaming in the firelight. “Narcissa!” he said, in a squeaky voice. “And Bellatrix! How charming—”

“Wormtail will get us drinks, if you’d like them,” Severus interrupted him, his tone cool. Draco knew that far from acting with the indifference of an arrogant Death Eater, his godfather actually did detest the whining little wizard. “And then he will return to his bedroom.”

Wormtail winced as though Severus had thrown something at him. “I am not your servant!” he squeaked, avoiding Snape’s eye.

“Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to assist me.”

“To assist, yes — but not to make you drinks and — and clean your house!”

“I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more dangerous assignments,” Severus said silkily. “This can be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord —”

“I can speak to him myself if I want to!”

“Of course you can,” Severus retorted, sneering. “But in the meantime, bring us drinks. Some of the elf-made wine will do.”

Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though he might argue; but then turned and headed through a second hidden door. They heard banging and a clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back, bearing a dusty bottle and three glasses upon a tray. He dropped these on the rickety table and scurried from their presence, slamming the book-covered door behind him.

Severus poured out three glasses of bloodred wine, and handed two of them to the sisters. Narcissa murmured a word of thanks, whilst Bellatrix said nothing, but continued to glower at Severus. This did not seem to discompose him; on the contrary, he looked rather amused. “The Dark Lord,” he said, raising his glass and draining it.

The sisters copied him. Severus refilled their glasses. As Narcissa took her second drink she said in a rush, “Severus, I’m sorry to come here like this, but I had to see you. I think you are the only one who can help me—”

Severus held up a hand to stop her, then pointed his wand again at the concealed staircase door. There was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by the sound of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs. “My apologies,” Severus murmured. “He has lately taken to listening at doors, I don’t know what he means by it...you were saying, Narcissa?”

She took a great, shuddering breath and started again. “Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to anyone, but—”

“Then you ought to hold your tongue!” Bellatrix snarled. “Particularly in present company!”

‘“Present company’?” Severus repeated sardonically. “And what am I to understand by that, Bellatrix?”

“That I don’t trust you, Snape, as you very well know!”

Narcissa let out a noise that might have been a dry sob and covered her face with her hands. Draco’s heart squeezed as he watched his mother struggling not to weep. Severus set his glass down upon the table and sat back again, his hands upon the arms of his chair, smiling into Bellatrix’s glowering face. “Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is bursting to say; it will save tedious interruptions. Well, continue, Bellatrix,” Severus went on. “Why is it that you do not trust me?”

“A hundred reasons!” she shot back loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to slam her glass upon the table. Draco ducked slightly, but Bellatrix was paying no mind to the window as she paced, and ranted. “Where to start! Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him when he vanished? What have you been doing all these years that you’ve lived in Dumbledore’s pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord procuring the Sorcerer’s Stone? Why did you not return at once when the Dark Lord was reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago when we were ambushed in the bowels of the Ministry?” She paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the color high in her cheeks.

Behind her, Narcissa still sat motionless, her face still hidden in her hands. Severus smiled. “Before I answer you—oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going to answer! You can carry my words back to the others who whisper behind my back, and carry false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord. Before I answer you, I say, let me ask a question in turn. Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every one of those questions? And do you really think that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you?”

She hesitated. “I know that he believes you, but...”

“You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?” Watching his godfather’s face, Draco smiled faintly. He was very firmly now of the opinion that it was Severus who was the most accomplished Legilimens he’d ever heard of, but Severus’ tone of conviction was perfect in its confidence.

Bellatrix said nothing to that, but looked, for the first time, a little discomfited. Severus did not press the point. He picked up his drink again, sipped it, and continued, “You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was where he had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because he wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume, that it was on the Dark Lord’s orders that I took up the post?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened her mouth, but Severus forestalled her. “You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius”—he inclined his head slightly to Narcissa— “and many others did not attempt to find him. I believed him finished. I am not proud of it, I was wrong, but there it is... If he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left.”

“He’d have _me_!” said Bellatrix passionately. “I, who spent all of those years in Azkaban for him!”

“Yes, indeed, most admirable,” Severus said boredly. “Of course, you weren’t a lot of use to him in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine--”

“ _Gesture_!” she shrieked; in her fury she looked slightly mad. “While I endured the dementors, _you_ remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing Dumbledore’s pet!”

“Not quite,” Severus replied calmly. “He wouldn’t give me the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, you know. Seemed to think it might, ah, bring about a relapse... tempt me into my old ways.”

“This was your sacrifice for the Dark Lord, not to teach your favorite subject?” Bellatrix jeered. “Why did you stay there all that time, Snape? Still spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?”

“Hardly,” Severus scoffed, “although the Dark Lord is pleased that I never deserted my post: I had sixteen years of information on Dumbledore to give him when he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back present than endless reminiscences of how unpleasant Azkaban is...”

“But you stayed—”

“Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed,” Severus snapped, betraying a hint of impatience for the first time. “I had a comfortable job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban. They were rounding up the Death Eaters, you know. Dumbledore’s protection kept me out of jail; it was most convenient and I used it. I repeat: The Dark Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see why you do. I think you next wanted to know,” he pressed on, a little more loudly, for Bellatrix showed every sign of interrupting, “why I stood between the Dark Lord and the Sorcerer’s Stone. That is easily answered. He did not know whether he could trust me. He thought, like you, that I had turned from faithful Death Eater to Dumbledore’s stooge. He was in a pitiable condition, very weak, sharing the body of a mediocre wizard. He did not dare reveal himself to a former ally if that ally might turn him over to Dumbledore or the Ministry. I deeply regret that he did not trust me. He would have returned to power three years sooner. As it was, I saw only greedy and unworthy Quirrell attempting to steal the stone and, I readily admit, I did all I could to thwart him.”

Bellatrix’s mouth twisted as though she had taken an unpleasant dose of medicine. “But you didn’t return when he came back, you didn’t fly back to him at once when you felt the Dark Mark burn —”

“Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on Dumbledore’s orders.”

“On Dumbledore’s—?” she began, utterly outraged.

“Think!” Severus said, impatient again. “Think! By waiting two hours, just two hours, I ensured that I could remain at Hogwarts as a spy! By allowing Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the Dark Lord’s side because I was ordered to, I have been able to pass information on Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix ever since! Consider, Bellatrix: The Dark Mark had been growing stronger for months. I knew he must be about to return, all the Death Eaters knew! I had plenty of time to think about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to escape like Karkaroff, didn’t I? The Dark Lord’s initial displeasure at my lateness vanished entirely, I assure you, when I explained that I remained faithful, although Dumbledore thought I was his man. Yes, the Dark Lord thought that I had left him forever, but he was wrong.”

“But what use have you been?” Bellatrix sneered. “What useful information have we had from you?”

“My information has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord,” Severus said dismissively. “If he chooses not to share it with you—”

“He shares everything with me!” Bellatrix cried, firing back up at once. “He calls me his most loyal, his most _faithful_ —”

“Does he?” Severus asked mildly, his voice delicately inflected to suggest his disbelief. “Does he still, after the fiasco at the Ministry?”

“That was not my fault!” Bellatrix gasped, flushing. “The Dark Lord has, in the past, entrusted me with his most precious—if Lucius hadn’t—”

“Don’t you _dare_ blame my husband!” Narcissa cut her off in a low and deadly voice, looking up at her sister with wrath in her eyes for the first time. Draco swallowed. He didn’t think he had ever seen such an expression of anger on his mother’s face before.

“There is no point apportioning blame,” Severus intervened smoothly. “What is done, is done.”

“But not by you!” Bellatrix said furiously. “No, you were once again absent while the rest of us faced danger, were you not, Snape?”

“My orders were to remain behind,” Severus said simply. “Perhaps you disagree with the Dark Lord, perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the Order of the Phoenix? And—forgive me—you speak of dangers... you were facing five teenagers, were you not?”

“They were joined, as you very well know, by half of the Order!” she snarled back. “And, while we are on the subject of the Order, you still claim you cannot reveal the whereabouts of their headquarters, don’t you?”

“I am not the Secret-Keeper; I cannot speak the name of the place. You understand how the enchantment works, I think? The Dark Lord is satisfied with the information I have passed him on the Order. It led, as perhaps you have guessed, to the recent capture and murder of Emmeline Vance, as well as the duel with your cousin, Sirius Black. Though my condolences, as I know you tried your very hardest to finish him off during that encounter.” Severus inclined his head and toasted her mockingly.

Her expression hardened further. “You still have no persuaded me that you’re trustworthy,” Bellatrix said coldly. “This entire past year--what have you been doing for him? Is that really your answer, that you have just sat in waiting, and that your inaction has been pleasing to him?”

“Have you discussed your concerns with the Dark Lord?” Severus asked.

“He...lately, we...I am asking _you_ , Snape!”

“It was only Dumbledore’s protection that was keeping me out of Azkaban, Bellatrix. Do you disagree that acting in any manner that suggested my continued involvement with the Dark Lord’s endeavors might have turned him against me?” Severus shook his head. “But to your specific questions--I have been far from inactive. I have been doing the _one_ thing that has been in direct support of the Dark Lord’s plans while not drawing any undue attention to myself...training your nephew.”

Draco startled a little, shifting to get a better look at Severus’ face. His godfather was staring Bellatrix right back down, no apology or fear in his face. Narcissa had hiccuped slightly at the mention of her son, and was now looking at Severus with confusion. He pressed on. “Knowing that he would either be called upon for active service to the Dark Lord, or at minimum he would need to be well-equipped to maintain absolute secrecy, I have endeavored to ensure his mastery of Occlumency in order to prevent even the slightest risk of Dumbledore gleaning any information from the boy’s mind.”

“And through all of this, we are supposed to believe Dumbledore has never suspected you?” Bellatrix asked coldly, showing no interest or concern at the mention of her nephew. “He has no idea of your true allegiance, he trusts you implicitly still?”

“I have played my part well,” Severus said. “And you overlook Dumbledore’s greatest weakness: He has to believe the best of people. I spun him a tale of deepest remorse when I joined his staff, fresh from my Death Eater days, and he embraced me with open arms—though, as I say, never allowing me nearer the Dark Arts than he could help. Dumbledore has been a great wizard—oh yes, he has,” (for Bellatrix had made a scathing noise), “--even the Dark Lord acknowledges it. However, Dumbledore is growing old. The duel with the Dark Lord last month left him quite shaken. He has since also sustained a serious injury because his reactions are slower than they once were. But through all these years, he has never stopped trusting me, and therein lies my great value to the Dark Lord.”

Bellatrix still looked unhappy, though she appeared unsure how best to attack Severus next. Draco couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pleasure at seeing her lose her seemingly unending self-assurance.

Taking advantage of Bellatrix’s silence, Severus turned to her sister. “Now... you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?”

Narcissa looked up at him, her face once more twisting with despair. “Yes, Severus. I—I think you are the only one who can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is out of favor with the Dark Lord, and...” She closed her eyes and two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids. “The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it,” Narcissa continued, her eyes still closed. “He wishes none to know of the plan. It is...very secret. But—”

“If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak,” Severus said at once. “The Dark Lord’s word is law, Narcissa.”

Narcissa gasped as though he had doused her with cold water. Bellatrix looked satisfied for the first time since she had entered the house. “There!” she said triumphantly to her sister. “Even Snape says so: You were told not to talk, so hold your silence!”

But Snape had gotten to his feet and strode to the small window, peering through the curtains at the deserted street; Draco shrank down, holding his breath and not even daring to try to pull the Extendable Ear from the glass. But Severus did not see it or him, and he turned back around to face Narcissa, frowning. “It so happens that I know of the plan,” he went on in a low voice. “I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark Lord.”

“I thought you must know about it!” Narcissa said with relief, breathing more freely. “He trusts you so, Severus...”

“You know about the plan?” Bellatrix echoed, her fleeting expression of satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. “ _You_ know?”

“Certainly,” Severus said coolly, rolling his eyes at her. “But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all.”

“Severus,” she whispered, tears beginning to slide down her pale cheeks, and Draco’s heart clenched at his mother’s raw grief. “My son...my only son...”

“Draco should be proud,” Bellatrix declared indifferently. “The Dark Lord is granting him a great honor. And I will say this for Draco--I have seen that he isn’t shrinking away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at the prospect—”

Draco clenched his jaw. True, it was excellent that his deranged aunt felt this way--and she wouldn’t be lying, she’d have no cause to praise his performance unless she truly respected it thus far--but he despised every action and every word that had garnered her approval. Knowing that his mother believed it all, too...Draco closed his eyes for a moment, and unbidden, Hermione leapt into his thoughts.

He blinked, refocusing on what was happening on the other side of the glass.

Narcissa had begun to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly all the while at Severus. “That’s because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store! Why, Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance for Lucius’s mistake, I know it!”

Severus said nothing. He looked away from the sight of her tears as though they were indecent, but he could not pretend not to hear her.

“That’s why he’s chosen Draco, isn’t it?” Narcissa persisted. “To punish Lucius?”

“If Draco succeeds,” Severus said slowly, still looking away from her, “he will be honored above all others.”

“But he won’t succeed!” Narcissa sobbed. “How can he, when the Dark Lord himself—?”

Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve. “I only meant...that nobody has yet succeeded...Severus...please...You are his godfather, you’re family...and you are Lucius’s old friend...I beg you...You are the Dark Lord’s favorite, his most trusted advisor...Will you speak to him, persuade him—?”

“The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not stupid enough to attempt it,” Severus told her flatly. “I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not angry with Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge that night, to have the matter under control. He got himself captured, along with how many others, and the Dark Lord both failed to kill Dumbledore, and was seen by the Ministry. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed.”

“Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!” Narcissa choked out, wringing her hands. “He does not mean him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!”

Draco held utterly still.

When Severus still said nothing, Narcissa seemed to lose what little self-restraint she still possessed. Standing up, she staggered to Severus and seized the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling onto his chest, she gasped, “You could do it. You could do it instead of Draco, Severus. You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond all of us--”

Severus caught hold of her wrists and removed her clutching hands. Looking down into her tearstained face, he said slowly, “He intends me to do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my useful role as spy.”

“In other words, it doesn’t matter to him if Draco is killed!”

“The Dark Lord is very angry,” Severus reiterated quietly. “You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily.”

She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the floor. “My only son...my only son...”

“You should be proud!” Bellatrix told her ruthlessly. “If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!”

 _You would, wouldn’t you, you cold bitch,_ Draco thought, staring in disgust at his aunt as she towered over his mother.

Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched at her long blonde hair. Severus stooped, seized her by the arms, lifted her up, and steered her back onto the sofa. He then poured her more wine and forced the glass into her hand. “Narcissa, that is enough. Drink this. Listen to me.” She quieted a little; slopping wine down her front, she took a shaky sip. “It might be possible...for me to help Draco.”

She sat up again at once, her face paper-white, her eyes huge. “Severus—oh, Severus—you would help him? Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?”

“I can try.”

She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table as she slid off the sofa into a kneeling position at Severus’ feet, seized his hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips to it. “If you are there to protect him...Severus, will you swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?”

Draco’s hand flew to cover his mouth, preventing an audible gasp at his mother’s request. Surely Severus would never agree--the danger, the guarantee for failure--

“The Unbreakable Vow?” Severus’ expression was blank, unreadable.

Bellatrix, however, let out a cackle of triumphant laughter. “Aren’t you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he’ll try, I’m sure...The usual empty words, the usual slithering out of action...oh, but all on the Dark Lord’s orders, of course!”

Severus did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were fixed upon Narcissa’s tear-filled blue ones as she continued to clutch his hand.

“Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow,” he said quietly, after a moment. “Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder.”

Bellatrix’s mouth fell open. Outside the window, Draco shook his head in wordless horror, but he could not speak or reveal himself.

Snape lowered himself so that he was kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath Bellatrix’s astonished gaze, they grasped right hands. “You will need your wand, Bellatrix,” Severus said coldly. She drew it, still looking astonished. “And you will need to move a little closer,” he said. She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and placed the tip of her wand on their linked hands.

Narcissa spoke, now quiet and intent. “Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord’s wishes?”

“I will,” Severus confirmed. A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot wire.

“And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?”

“I will,” Severus said again. A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain.

“And, should it prove necessary...if it seems Draco will fail...” whispered Narcissa, “will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?” There was a moment’s silence. Bellatrix watched, her wand upon their clasped hands, her eyes wide.

“I will,” said Snape. Bellatrix’s astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a third unique flame, which shot from the wand, twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly around their clasped hands, like a fiery snake. And then it faded from sight, and they released each other’s hands. Narcissa now looked far calmer and more composed, and she waved her wand, tidying her hair and makeup and removing the stain of the wine that she had spilled.

“Thank you, Severus,” she whispered, going to collect the wine goblet that she had flung. “I feel...far less certain that I am going to lose my child, now.”

Draco could see Severus’ face spasm, but after a moment, his godfather offered Narcissa a thin smile. “I will do everything in my power to prevent such a tragic loss from happening. Now, I’m sure that your absence at the Manor will soon be noticed...”

“Yes, we--we must go,” she agreed, and Bellatrix moved towards the door, followed by Narcissa. “Good...goodnight, Severus.”

Draco pulled the Ear from the window, pocketing it and shrinking down to let the shadows conceal him as his mother and aunt emerged from the door again. They drew their hoods over their heads, departing without another word and crossing the road again before Draco heard the distinctive rush of sound that accompanied side-along Apparation.

Severus stood in the doorframe, waiting for them to be gone before he moved to close the door. Draco stood at once, no longer avoiding his feet crunching in the garden gravel, and Severus had his wand raised and lit and aimed at Draco’s face in a heartbeat.

When he saw the teenager, his brows rose swiftly, and he lowered his wand before finally sighing quietly. “I suppose I am not surprised. Come on, you mustn’t be seen hovering about out here...”

Draco followed his godfather inside, skipping the pleasantries and getting right to it. “Why the bloody hell would you do that, Severus? Why would you make the Unbreakable Vow? Why--”

Severus raised his hand sharply, and Draco went silent as abruptly as if the older wizard had used a jinx.

The door by the bookshelves opened, and Draco realized that Severus had been right to stop him as Pettigrew slipped back into the drawing room. The unpleasant little man’s face showed surprise when he saw Draco, but if he found it strange that he was there shortly after his mother had been, he didn’t say so.

“Master Draco, how delightful,” he simpered, and Draco had to force himself not to scowl at the idiot. “Were we expecting--”

“No,” he said, cutting him off. “No, I just came to...to see my godfather.”

Severus returned to his armchair, pouring himself more wine and staring at Pettigrew impassively until the silence became awkward. Finally Pettigrew huffed, looking furtively once more at Draco before he turned and scuttled back through the door and up the stairs.Only when his steps had reached the top did Severus look back at Draco. His voice was cool, but not unkind. “You would do well to trust your elders, Draco.”

His meaning was clear; Snape knew what he was doing--or believed that he did--and he was certain of Dumbledore’s approval behind his actions.

The teenager finally sighed heavily. “....fine. Uh, can you--”

Severus stood, setting his wine down and summoning his cloak before leading the way to the door. “Come, I’ll see you off. I presume you did not come by Apparation...”

Draco showed him the Portkey, and Severus nodded, guiding him through the garden and out onto the lane. “Home, then. Be careful, Draco--don’t leave the Manor like this again. You are in a safe position, in regards to the Dark Lord, but that safety is...tenuous.” He took the Portkey, activating it with a quick tap and setting it on top of the fence for Draco to place his hand on it as it began to glow, ready to take him back to the study at the back of the Manor. “Do not fret, Draco. All is going according to plan.”


	14. Left of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This, Horace,” said Dumbledore, “is Miss Hermione Granger, one of my students. Truly, one of the brightest to come through Hogwarts in many years; I haven’t seen intelligence like hers since, why, Lily Evans was with us. Hermione, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”

Hermione felt badly for how little of the summer she got to spend with her parents, but there was really no helping it. She hadn’t been able to tell them...well, anything, really, about what was happening in the magical world--to some degree, that was due to the secrecy involved, since she was not a Secret Keeper for the Order, but a much larger factor was simply her fear over how they would react. They were sensible people, but Hermione could not be sure that they wouldn’t do something rash and highly unhelpful, like refuse to let her return to Hogwarts.

She needed to be there. Hermione needed to be a part of this war, and it didn’t matter that she was only sixteen, she had to do her share. Nothing, least of all her parents’ well-meaning concern, could stand in the way of doing what was right.

The Weasleys had graciously and eagerly welcomed her to come stay with them once their Hogwarts letters arrived, and she arranged to remain with them after their Diagon Alley trip as well, through to the end of the summer. It was nice, being in a fully magical home again, and one that was so filled with love and laughter. Hermione adored her parents and her little home, but being an only child could be quite lonely.

Here, she slept in Ginny’s room and they stayed up late chatting and playing card games, or they’d sit down in the drawing room with Ron while he and Ginny played Exploding Snap or Gobstones, and Mrs. Weasley was almost always cooking something that smelled heavenly. The twins came home every few days, looking far more grown-up than she’d ever seen them in their dragon-skin jackets and business suits.

Their joke shop had taken off, good and properly; it seemed that people wanted a little spark of mischief and good humor in their lives, with all the grimness that was going on in the world at large.

The outing to Diagon Alley had gone as well as it could, though the heightened fear in the community was almost palpable in its intensity. They got their school things, their books and potions ingredients, supplies for the animals that they each had--treats for little Pigwidgeon the owl, and for Crookshanks, and then Ginny chose to purchase one of the Pygmy Puffs that Fred and George were selling, and called him Arnold.

She hadn’t known whether or not to expect a sighting of Draco, so the run-in at Madam Malkins’ had been both a pleasant and rather unnerving surprise. It was difficult to remember that they couldn’t be sure of Draco’s mother--Hermione wished that they knew if she could be trusted to know that her son was a spy.

But the risk of her choosing her husband over Draco was simply too high to be overlooked, and so the performance had to continue. Hermione would have also been a little discomforted by how indifferently Draco had behaved, but the way he’d touched her hand as he had left the shop had put her heart right back at ease.

They were alright, still. Things were horrible, they really were--but they had a fighting chance, and Draco was with them.

She was gathered with the Weasleys in the front garden for a spot of afternoon tea when Mrs. Weasley looked towards the little gate, and made a sound of astonishment. “Professor Dumbledore!”

The teenagers looked around in shock; sure enough, the Headmaster had appeared, presumably by Apparation, just outside of the hedges that lined the Burrow’s property and marked the end of its protection spells. He smiled warmly at the little assembly as he entered the gate, crossing the grass to join them with a cheery wave.

Hermione paused, noticing that despite the pleasant late-summer weather, Dumbledore was wearing a glove on his right hand.

“What a delight--please, join us,” Mrs. Weasley said, beaming at him. “Tea and cake, Professor?”

“That would be most appreciated, I thank you, Molly,” Dumbledore replied, accepting the chair that she conjured for him at the head of the table. “I have always enjoyed the hospitable ambiance of your beautiful home; though I do apologize for not notifying you ahead of time that I was coming by.”

“That’s quite alright, you’re always welcome,” she assured him, sending a steaming cup of tea and a small plate of pound cake floating down the table to settle in front of him. “To what do we owe the honor today? You can’t have just been passing by, surely.”

“No, indeed, there’s little besides the pleasure of present company to draw me out to Ottery St. Catchpole, charming though the village be,” Dumbledore allowed, applying sugar before sipping his tea. “Today, however, I have come by in order to speak with Miss Granger--unless you have plans for the remainder of the day, of course,” he added graciously, smiling at Hermione as she stared at him in confusion. “It was very rude of me not to write first and inquire as to your availability.”

“No, I’m...I’m free,” she stammered, trading a bewildered look with Ron and Ginny. “Should we--do you need all of us?”

“No, in this instance I require only your assistance, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore finished his tea, then ate a little of the cake. “Molly, I do so hate to run off on you within five minutes, but I will make certain to come by for a proper visit as soon as I am able.” Mrs. Weasley waved him off, smiling despite her obvious confusion, and Dumbledore stood. “Miss Granger, would you mind accompanying me? I assure you, I will have you back here safe and sound as swiftly as possible.”

Hermione rose, smiling gratefully at Mrs. Weasley as the older witch summoned Hermione’s sweater from inside for her. “Alright, then--thank you, Mrs. Weasley--be back shortly.” With one more exchange of _what-on-earth_ glances to Ron and Ginny, Hermione turned to follow Dumbledore across the garden.

“Keep your wand at the ready, Hermione,” Dumbledore said brightly, as he held the gate open to allow her through first before following her. Hermione tangibly felt it when they left the bubble of security that surrounded the Burrow; the air felt a few degrees cooler, and there was a heightened sense of vulnerability, as if she had stepped out from beneath Harry’s old Invisibility Cloak and was now being watched by unseen eyes.

“But--I’m not allowed to use magic outside school, am I, sir?” Hermione asked, surprised at the instruction.

“If there is an attack,” Dumbledore replied gravely, “I give you permission to use any counterjinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight.”

“Why not, sir?”

“Because you are with me,” said Dumbledore simply. “This will do.” He came to an abrupt halt at the end of the lane that led up to the Burrow. “You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test,” he said.

“No,” Hermione said, curious. “You have to be seventeen, don’t you, Professor?”

“You do,” Dumbledore affirmed. “So you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don’t mind—I am afraid that my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment.” Hermione gripped Dumbledore’s proffered forearm, glancing at the glove again; but he did not elaborate, and she didn’t feel that he had invited her to probe further.

“Very good,” Dumbledore said. “Well, here we go.”

Hermione felt Dumbledore’s arm twist away from her and she redoubled her grip; the next thing she knew, everything went black, and she was being pressed very hard from all directions. She could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around her chest; her eyeballs were being forced back into her head; her eardrums were being pushed deeper into her skull and then—

She gulped great lungfuls of cold night air and opened her streaming eyes. She felt as though she had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube.

It was a few seconds before Hermione realized that the Burrow had vanished. She and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. Her comprehension catching up with his senses, Hermione realized that she had just Apparated for the first time in her life.

“Are you all right?” Dumbledore asked her, looking down at her solicitously. “The sensation does take some getting used to.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione confirmed, letting go of his arm in order to rub her ears, which felt as though they had left the Burrow behind rather reluctantly. “But I feel a touch less eager to start Apparation lessons this year...”

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around his neck, and said, “This way.” He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was nearing nine’o’clock.

“So tell me, Hermione,” Dumbledore said as they walked. “Have you been able to have any contact at all this summer with our friend, Mr. Malfoy?”

“No,” she said, sighing in frustration. “I mean, I took the risk--I wrote him, hid it inside of a copy of the Prophet. I know I shouldn’t have, but I just couldn’t stand not knowing. Pansy Parkinson wrote me back, she said that he was alright and everything, but still...” Hermione frowned. “And we saw him in Diagon Alley buying his school things...his mother was there, so we couldn’t speak, but he looked...so tired.”

The encounter had been weighing on Hermione ever since, though she’d held her tongue rather than admit that to Ron and Ginny. She knew that they’d say it was just the circumstances--of course Draco wasn’t alright, look at where he had to spend his summer, it was a miracle he was being allowed back to Hogwarts at all--and, if Hermione was honest, she was a touch worried that Ginny might tease her for being so concerned about Draco.

She might be able to admit it to herself, but she wasn’t ready to have her feelings examined in conversation just yet.

Still, she knew that she wasn’t being silly. When Draco had seen them in the robe shop, he had looked relieved before controlling his expression again...but then there was the moment when Madam Malkin was pinning the robe sleeve, on his left arm. He’d been distracted, and then reacted to the touch as if she had pinched or burned him.

Hermione had always been quick at connecting dots, able to draw conclusions from a scattered number of facts...but just as she had felt at thirteen, when she had deduced poor Professor Lupin’s secret based on calendars and classwork, she was desperately hoping that she was mistaken about her current theory.

“Yes, I presumed that he would be unable to make any kind of direct communication,” Professor Dumbledore said regretfully, shaking Hermione out of her grim thoughts. “I am glad to know that Miss Parkinson is able to be a good ally for him--as well as young Mr. Nott, I believe, based on observations alone. I do not recall seeing their names on your very clever roster--but I believe that that was to your credit, was it not?”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Yes, sir. The instant Dobby warned us--well, I knew that they’d get a hold of it somehow, and my first thought was that none of the Slytherins’ names could be on the list."

“It was brilliantly handled,” Professor Dumbledore complimented her, and Hermione flushed with pleasure at the praise. “And it certainly did save them, as we can easily guess how Madam Umbridge and the Minister would have reacted to learning the truth about where their loyalties lie.” Hermione shuddered, hating the very thought.

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box, and a bus shelter. Hermione looked sideways at Dumbledore again. “Um...Professor?”

“Hermione?”

“Er—where exactly are we?”

“This, Hermione, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.”

“And what are we doing here?”

“Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,” Dumbledore said, chuckling softly. “Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.”

Hermione blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “How...how will I be able to help with that, sir?”

“Oh, I think we’ll find a use for you,” Dumbledore replied vaguely. “Left here.”

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over everything for weeks persisted here, too. Thinking of dementors, Hermione cast a look over her shoulder and grasped her wand reassuringly in his pocket. “Professor, why couldn’t we just Apparate directly into your old colleague’s house?”

“Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance—”

“—you can’t Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds,” Hermione murmured, remembering. “I read about that before first year had begun.”

“Quite correct. We turn left again.” The church clock chimed the hour behind them. Hermione wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but now that conversation had been established, she had more pressing matters to ask the Headmaster about. Hermione had spent the summer listening, and watching, and gathering information, some of which required clarification.

“Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been fired...”

“Correct,” Dumbledore said, now turning up a steep side street. “He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office.”

“Is he...Do you think he’s good?” Hermione asked, unsure of how else to phrase it.

“An interesting question,” Dumbledore said musingly. “He is able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius.”

“Yes, but I meant—”

“I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort.”

Hermione waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the disagreement that the Daily Prophet had claimed him to have had with Scrimgeour, and she did not have the nerve to pursue the subject; so she changed it. “And...sir...I also read about Madam Bones.” Hermione had known of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement only by reputation, and from her niece Susan at school; according to the Prophet, she had been killed quite brutally, most likely by Voldemort himself.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said quietly, remorse in his voice. “A terrible loss. She was a great witch. Just up here, I think—ouch.” He had pointed with his gloved hand.

“Professor, why is your...?”

“I have no time to explain now,” said Dumbledore. “It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice.” He smiled at Hermione, who understood that she was not being snubbed, and that she had permission to keep asking questions.

“Sir—I received a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters...”

“Yes, I received one myself,” Dumbledore said, still smiling. “Did you find it useful?”

“Not really,” she admitted truthfully.

“No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor.”

“I didn’t...” Hermione began, not entirely sure whether she was being reprimanded or not.

“For future reference, Hermione, it is raspberry...although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself.”

“Um... alright,” Hermione said, saving that information rather reflexively, though she still wasn’t certain whether or not Dumbledore was scolding her. “Well, on that leaflet, it said something about Inferi. What exactly are they? The leaflet wasn’t very clear.”

“They are corpses,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Dead bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark wizard’s bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful...He killed enough people to make an army of them, of course. This is the place, Hermione, just here...”

They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. Hermione was too busy digesting the horrible idea of Inferi to have much attention left for anything else, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped dead, and Hermione walked into him. “Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear.”

Hermione followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path, and felt her heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges. Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted. “Wand out, and follow me, Hermione,” he said quietly.

He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path, Hermione at his heels, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready. “Lumos.” Dumbledore’s wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Hermione right behind him.

A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything.

Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Hermione’s small intake of breath made Dumbledore look around.

“Not pretty, is it?” he said heavily. “Yes, something horrible has happened here.” Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Hermione followed, gazing around, half-scared of what she might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa--but there was no sign of a body.

“Perhaps there was a fight and—and they dragged him off, Professor?” Hermione suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.

“I don’t think so,” Dumbledore replied softly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.

“Do you mean that he’s—?”

“Still here somewhere? Yes.” And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!”

“Good evening, Horace,” Dumbledore said, straightening up again.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched a very fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.

“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.” The wandlight sparkled on his shiny head, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walrus-like mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore’s chin. “What gave it away?” he went on as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair. Hermione knew that she was gaping rudely, but she couldn’t help it.

“My dear Horace,” Dumbledore said, looking amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.”

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead. “The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was something...ah well. Wouldn’t have had time anyway, I’d only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.” He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.

“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” Dumbledore asked politely.

“Please,” the other man replied. They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion. The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-formed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.

“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” Dumbledore asked loudly over the chiming of the newly un-smashed grandfather flock.

“On the walls? Dragon,” shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling. There was a final plunk from the piano, and then silence. “Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally. “My last bottle, too, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.” He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within. “Hmm. Bit dusty.”

He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Hermione. “Oho,” he said, straightening up. “Dear me, I didn’t even see you there.”

“This, Horace,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, “is Miss Hermione Granger, one of my students. Truly, one of the brightest to come through Hogwarts in many years; I haven’t seen intelligence like hers since, why, Lily Evans was with us. Hermione, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. “Not giving up then, are you--is that how you think you’ll persuade me to come back? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.” He pushed past Hermione, his face turned resolutely away as if just meeting her gaze would make him waver somehow.

“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” Dumbledore asked lightly. “For old time’s sake?”

Slughorn hesitated. “Oh, very well, then, one drink,” he finally said, more resignedly than graciously.

Dumbledore smiled at Hermione and directed her toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp.

Hermione took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep her as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon her.

“Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. “Here—” He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, thrust the tray at Hermione, and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.

“Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?” Dumbledore asked politely, as if they were meeting at a sunlit cafe for tea and not sitting tensely together late at night.

“Not so well,” Slughorn replied at once. “Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can’t move like I used to. Well, that’s to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.”

“And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,” Dumbledore noted, smiling a little. “You can’t have had more than three minutes’ warning?”

Half-irritably, half-proudly, Slughorn said, “Two. Didn’t hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,” he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, “the fact remains that I’m an old man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”

He certainly had those, Hermione couldn’t help thinking as she looked around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Hermione had not known who lived there, she would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady.

“You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,” Dumbledore pointed out.

“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” Slughorn retorted bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore’s gloved hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”

“You’re quite right about that,” Dumbledore agreed serenely, removing the midnight-blue glove to reveal that his fingers were burned and blackened; Hermione gasped out loud despite herself, covering her mouth in a too-late attempt to stifle the sound. “I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand...”

Dumbledore shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Hermione noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn’s eyes lingered for a moment on the ring as well, and Hermione saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.

“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace...are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” Dumbledore went on.

“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded Slughorn.

“I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder,” Dumbledore replied frankly. “Are you really telling me that they haven’t come recruiting yet?”

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, “I haven’t given them the chance. I’ve been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house—the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands—it’s been very pleasant, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneako-scopes, and make sure the neighbors don’t spot you bringing in the piano.”

“Ingenious,” Dumbledore complimented him. “But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts—”

“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these days—”

“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,” Dumbledore interrupted him idly. “I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.’”

“That’s what she did, did she?” Slughorn said, snorting. “Idiotic woman. Never liked her.”

Hermione giggled at that, and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked over at her. “Sorry,” she said hastily. “It’s just—I didn’t like her either. Despised her, actually.”

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly. “Are you leaving?” Slughorn asked at once, looking hopeful.

“No, I was merely wondering whether I might use your bathroom,” Dumbledore replied.

“Oh,” Slughorn sighed, clearly disappointed. “Second on the left down the hall.”

Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him, there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet as well, but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Hermione, then crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.

“Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you,” he said abruptly.

Hermione merely looked back at Slughorn, still utterly confused on that point, herself. Slughorn’s watery eyes slid over her face pensively. “I remember your name,” he remarked. “From articles in the Prophet. When the Triwizard Tournament was going on. The wretched Skeeter woman, she mentioned you time and again--your name was always hand-in-hand with Harry Potter’s.”

Hermione swallowed, blinking rapidly to make sure that she did not abruptly begin tearing up. She hadn’t expected to hear his name. “He was my best friend,” she replied softly. “Him and Ronald Weasley.” Hermione frowned, a connection forming itself in her mind that she hadn’t realized she’d been working on. “You--did you know Harry’s mother? Professor Dumbledore--when he introduced me to you, he said the name Lily Evans. Wasn’t that Harry’s mother’s name, before she married?”

Slughorn looked still more conflicted, as if torn between answering her and shutting down the conversation. “Yes, yes, that was her...lovely Lily. You shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine.” Slughorn sighed heavily, seemingly resigning himself to talking about it, after all. “One of the brightest students I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”

“Which was your House?” Hermione asked, leaning forward. She was becoming far more curious than confused, at this rate.

“I was Head of Slytherin,” Slughorn replied. “Oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the startled expression on Hermione’s face and wagging a stubby finger at her, “don’t look so surprised! You’ll be Gryffindor, I suppose, like Potter was? Yes, I suppose that would make sense--students form tight bonds within their Houses, always did...no surprise that Potter was a Gryffindor, of course, after both James and Lily--it normally runs in families that way.”

He considered his own words, then shrugged. “Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done—the fellow who escaped Azkaban, he’s either on the run or dead now--” It was as though an invisible hand twisted around Hermione’s guts, and she managed to control her expression to not react too much. “Well, anyway, he was at Hogwarts at the same time that Lily was. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame—he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”

He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside. “And Lily was Muggle-born, too, of course. Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pureblood, she was so good.”

There was a beat. “...I’m Muggle-born,” Hermione admitted cautiously, a little wary that the conversation might be about to take a turn for the much worse.

“And Dumbledore compares you to Lily for talent--funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” Slughorn said, chuckling. Then he saw the look that spasmed across Hermione’s face, and Slughorn looked down at her in surprise. “Oh, you mustn’t think I’m prejudiced!” he rushed to assure her. “No, no, no! Haven’t I just said Lily was one of my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too—now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course—another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!”

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants. “All ex-students, all signed. You’ll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he’s always interested to hear my take on the day’s news. And Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes—a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkisss who gave him his first job! And at the back—you’ll see her, if you just crane your neck—that’s Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies...People are always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!”

This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.

“And all these people know where to find you, to send you things?” Hermione asked, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn’s face as quickly as the blood from his walls. “Of course not,” he said, looking down at Hermione. “I have been out of touch with everybody for a year.” Hermione had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment.

Then he shrugged. “Still...the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I personally don't fancy the mortality rate—” 

“You don’t have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts,” Hermione said, who could not quite keep a note of annoyance out of her voice: It was hard to sympathize with Slughorn’s cosseted existence when she thought about Sirius, crouching in a cave and living on rats for so long. And his circumstances now, living back in his childhood home of nightmares, was hardly much better. “Plenty of the teachers aren’t in it, and none of them has ever been killed—well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort.”

Hermione had suspected that Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort’s name spoken aloud, and she was not disappointed: Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which she pointedly ignored.

“I expect that the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?” Hermione went on.

Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Hermione’s words.

“Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,” he muttered at last, rather grudgingly. “And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend...in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus...I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones’s death did not shake me...If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection...”

Dumbledore reentered the room, and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten that he was in the house. “Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You’ve been a very long lime. Upset stomach?”

“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” Dumbledore replied contentedly. “I do love knitting patterns. Well, Hermione, I believe that we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”

Not at all reluctant to obey, Hermione rose to her feet at once. Slughorn seemed taken aback. “You’re leaving?” he asked, his tone now unsure.

“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.”

“Lost...?” Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, and Hermione pull her sweater back on.

“Well, I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,” Dumbledore went on, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.”

“Yes...well...very gracious...as I say...”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Bye,” Hermione added, following the Headmaster into the front hall.

They were at the door when there was a shout from behind them. “All right, all right, I’ll do it!” Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.

“You will come out of retirement?”

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn said impatiently. “I must be mad, but yes.”

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said, beaming. “Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”

“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn. As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn’s voice floated after them, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore merely chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist. “Well done, Hermione,” Dumbledore remarked.

“I didn’t do anything,” Hermione said, looking up at him in surprise.

“Oh, but you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?”

“I...” Hermione wasn’t sure whether she had liked Slughorn or not. She supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch.

“Horace,” Dumbledore explained, relieving Hermione of the responsibility to say any of her thoughts, “likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat—more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.”

Hermione had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.

“I tell you all of this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace—or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn—but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Hermione. You would be a jewel in his collection; one of our late Mr. Potter’s closest friends, exceptionally talented--and unique in that area, sub-categorically, being Muggle-born--I admit, perhaps it was underhanded of me to draw his mind to how similar you are to his long-ago favorite Miss Evans, but it was certainly as effective as I had anticipated that it would be.”

Listening to him, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Hermione. She was not entirely sure that she liked the sound of that, even if it did seem highly flattering to be compared to Harry’s mother, of whom Hermione had only ever heard good things said.

Dumbledore stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier. “This will do, Hermione. If you will grasp my arm.”

Braced this time, Hermione was ready for the Apparition--but she still found it highly unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and she found himself able to breathe again, she was standing once more in the country lane beside Dumbledore, and looking ahead at the crooked silhouette of the Burrow. The Headmaster stepped forward to place his hand on the little wooden gate, and then paused.

“I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Hermione, but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that happened at the Ministry,” Dumbledore remarked, looking over at her. “You were incredibly brave, and fought as admirably as any of the older members of the Order. You certainly earned your stripes that night.”

Hermione swallowed; her voice seemed to have deserted her.

“I must also thank you,” Professor Dumbledore went on, his tone gentling. “I recall quite clearly what I saw. Had you not acted as bravely and swiftly as you did, we would have lost Sirius Black to the cruelty of his cousin. You saved his life, for which I cannot commend you enough.”

Hermione nodded, meeting the professor’s gaze and struggling not to let her lip quiver with emotion. She could tell that Dumbledore understood.

“I’ve realized, this past year,” she said slowly, selecting each word with care. “...that I can’t hold back, not anymore. I can’t be too afraid to move, or let what’s happening drive me mad rather than drive me to action. What we’re fighting for is just--it’s too important. And even without this war--life is too short. Look at Madam Bones, look at Emmeline Vance...It could be me next, or any number of people who I care about so fiercely.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “But if it is me--if my time comes during this war, I mean--then I’ll make sure that I take as many Death Eaters with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it.”

“Spoken like the truest of Gryffindors, and most certainly the unfailing best friend of Harry Potter himself!” Dumbledore said, with an approving squeeze to Hermione’s shoulder. “I tip my hat to you, Miss Granger.”

Dumbledore opened the little gate, and they stepped through it into the Burrow garden once more. The protection spells closed over them, and Hermione felt once more a little warmer, and a little more comfortable. Most of the lights were off inside the house, but the kitchen was illuminated; she was sure that Ron and Ginny were waiting up for her, and most likely their mother as well.

At the doorstep, Dumbledore paused. “Now, two more things, Hermione, before we part. Firstly, I believe that Harry’s Invisibility Cloak would be best entrusted to Mr. Malfoy this year, for several possible reasons. Do you think that is reasonable?”

Hermione nodded at once. She hadn’t thought of that, but it would make her feel infinitely better to know that Draco had that measure of protection readily at hand.

“And lastly, while you are staying here, the Burrow has been given the highest security the Ministry of Magic can provide. These measures have caused a certain amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly—all their post, for instance, is being searched at the Ministry before being sent on. They do not mind in the slightest, for their only concern is the safety of you, and of their own children. However, it would be poor repayment if you risked your neck while staying with them.”

“I understand,” Hermione said at once. “I promise, we’ll keep our heads down until we return to Hogwarts. And even then, when possible,” she added, making him smile.

“Very good, then,” Dumbledore said, chuckling. “I see that the light is on in the kitchen. Let us not go and reassure Molly that you are alive and well, and let her ply us with more of her delectable cooking.”

* * *

The relief that Draco felt when he and Narcissa left the Manor to journey to King’s Cross Station was very nearly impossible for him to contain, but he did his damnedest. It felt as the tension was bleeding out of his body with every breath he took, leaving the darkness of the Manor behind. They reached Platform 9 3/4, and Narcissa embraced him; Draco could feel her hands trembling slightly.

“Be...be careful, Draco,” his mother murmured. “Take care of yourself this year, my son.”

Draco swallowed, offering her a small, sad smile. “I will, Mother. Don’t worry.”

Once his trunk and Orion’s cage were loaded, Draco boarded the train and made his way along the narrow hallway towards the carriage where the Slytherin prefects were sitting. He knew that Theo would probably be in there with Pansy, and Draco was looking forward to being back in the safety and comfort of their company. It would have been lovely to be able to sit with Ron and Hermione too, of course, but for now, this would suffice.

As he walked along the passage, Draco was startled out of his thoughts at the sound of familiar voices ahead of him--Ron and Hermione were being blocked from the Gryffindor prefects’ carriage, and to Draco’s immense disquiet, it was Crabbe and Goyle who stood in their way.

Ron’s expression was murderous, while Hermione looked as if she might be struggling not to cry, which made Draco’s entire body lock up with an intense surge of furious protectiveness. He made his way closer, trying to get a grasp of what was going on before actively moving to intervene.

“Sod off, you gits,” Ron was snarling, and he took a half-step forward, as if to put himself between them and Hermione. Draco was simultaneously grateful, and somehow irritated by the gesture. “Go stuff yourselves on some cauldron cakes or something, just leave us alone.”

Crabbe was sneering. “That’s cute, Weasley, you trying to protect your girlfriend. You’re going to have to be careful about her, you know. Things are changing--mudbloods are going to start being hunted down like the scum that they are. You’re no better, whole family of blood traitors--but if you whore around with a mudblood, you’re gonna end up going down, too.” His grin widened nastily. “Y’know, I’m really hoping that I’m there when she’s killed.”

Ron’s hand went for his wand, and Draco opened his mouth at the same time--but he swallowed the rage that he wanted to express, forcing himself into the same headspace that he had used to handle Borgin when he’d gone in about the Vanishing Cupboard.

“Don’t, Weasley,” he called, moving closer with measured steps, as if he wasn’t rushing to their defense so much as just joining the confrontation. “You don’t want to wind up with a Detention before we’ve even gotten to Hogwarts, surely.” Draco held his friend’s gaze, watching Ron deflate slightly--not angrily, he clearly recognized that he’d been acting impulsively--before he lowered his hand.

“Should give him one, anyway, for threatening me,” Crabbe said, giving Draco a beady-eyed look. “‘S what Prefects are for, innit, punishing students who try to start duels in the corridors?”

“If it was, you’d be in detention every night,” Hermione said sharply. Draco could hear the waver in her voice; he knew her tells by now, and she was barely holding onto her composure as she glared back at Crabbe. “ _You’re_ the one who threatened us, you could’ve just let us enter our carriage--”

“Shut up,” Crabbe snarled at her. “I’ll tolerate talking to your boyfriend, you bitch, but I’m not gonna be sullied by your mudblood filth--”

Draco and Ron both moved for their wands, and Draco truly didn’t have a clue who he might have acted against--it was Crabbe that he was abruptly furious at, as angry as he’d been all summer at the monsters roaming his home, but he also couldn’t risk Ron doing anything stupid.

The strangest element among the emotions clashing through him, though, was a surge of what could only be called raw jealousy. Hearing Crabbe suggest, more than one time, that Ron and Hermione were a couple, made something ugly and possessive growl into life in his chest, and Draco did not know how to reign in the burst of aggression that he felt at the unbidden, unwelcome mental image of Ron with Hermione sharing any degree of more-than-platonic intimacy.

“Bloody hell, Vince, can’t you avoid starting fights for five minutes?”

Draco let go of his wand before he’d even properly grasped it, looking over his shoulder to find Blaise approaching them, hands in his pockets and an expression of sardonic annoyance on his face. He couldn’t possibly know what he had just saved Draco from doing, but Draco honestly wanted to hug the other Slytherin at that moment.

“Come on,” Blaise continued in a bored tone, clapping a hand on Draco’s shoulder as he passed him, gesturing for Crabbe and Goyle to move, as well. “For someone who hates the mudblood as much as you do, you’re giving her far too much of your time right now. Move, Weasley, take your wench and get lost.”

Ron’s jaw flexed, but Hermione grabbed his wrist, and he stepped back alongside her to let the Slytherins pass them. Crabbe gave Hermione one last venomous look, then turned to stalk after Blaise with Goyle at his heels. Draco hesitated, giving Hermione a swift glance--she made an attempt at a smile that didn’t work, fear and gratitude both in her hazel gaze--and then he forced himself to move as well, following his Housemates.

He paused at the open door of the compartment that Blaise had led the others into, looking in at them. Blaise spotted him and nodded in greeting, waving him in. “Sorry for stepping on your authority there, Prefect,” he teased lightly. “It appeared that not even a detention was going to deflect Crabbe from doing something reckless.”

“Jinxing a mudblood and a blood traitor isn’t reckless,” Crabbe snapped back, slouching into his seat and giving Draco a baleful sidelong glance. “Not anymore. Things are gonna get better for us now, you’ll see. Soon we’ll be allowed to put ‘em in their proper place.”

It took everything that he had, but Draco managed to adopt an expression of vague interest rather than the cold fury that he felt. He stepped into the compartment, moving to sit beside Blaise as he returned Crabbe’s gaze unflinchingly. “How do you mean? Not about their proper place, obviously I understand that--what makes you think we’ll be able to without consequences?”

Crabbe smirked, and there was a depth of malice in his eyes that Draco didn’t think he had ever seen before in the other boy. “Well, the Dark Lord’s back now, right? And the whole world knows it--they’re all scared to death.” He chuckled darkly. “He’s gonna rise to power and take things over proper--and then he’ll make things right. We’ll be able to do away with the mudbloods and half-bloods and all their trash. And blood traitors will either have to clean up their acts, or go down alongside ‘em.”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure how to breathe for a moment. Thankfully, Blaise spoke, sparing him from having to try. “You really believe so?” he asked Crabbe idly; he didn’t sound put off by the prospect, just skeptical. “Wishful thinking, or do you actually know something?”

Again, Crabbe just grinned, his eyes glittering. “I know enough. Just wait, Zabini. Things are going to go well for those of us on the right side of things. Soon.”

The train lurched into motion, and Draco took advantage of its swaying to rise, concealing his nervous movements in the back-and-forth of the Hogwarts Express rolling out of the station. “Ah, I’ve got--got to get to the Prefects’ carriage,” he said, struggling for a level voice. “I’ll see you all at dinner.” Blaise nodded, waving him off, and Draco turned away in order to stop seeing the smug, malevolent look on Crabbe’s face.

* * *

Once the Sorting of the new first year students was complete, and the ever-spectacular welcoming feast devoured, Dumbledore rose as usual to give a closing greeting before bedtime.

“The very best of evenings to you!” he called out, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room.

“What happened to his hand?” Pansy muttered, looking half-repulsed and half-fascinated. She was not the only one who noticed, of course; Dumbledore’s right hand was blackened and dead-looking, and whispers filled the Great Hall at once. Draco just shook his head, having no idea either. His eyes cut towards the Gryffindor table for the others’ reactions--and to his surprise, Hermione did not appear nearly as shocked as the rest of the students.

He’d have to ask her about that, later.

Dumbledore, interpreting the outbreak of muttering correctly, merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury. “Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now...to our new students, welcome, and to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you...”

“It looks as if it’s died,” Theo remarked, eyeing Dumbledore’s concealed hand and not seeming to pay attention to his words. “I’d have thought Madam Pomfrey--but then again, there are some injuries you can’t cure...old curses and the like... and there are poisons without antidotes...”

“... and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” Dumbledore was continuing. “Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.”

“That’ll be odd--I’d gotten used to Lee Jordan’s voice doing that,” Pansy said, smirking. “Ah well, I guess everything changes eventually.”

“We are also pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year, Professor Slughorn—” Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoated belly casting the table into shadow. “—Who is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.”

“Potions?”

“Potions?”

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard right.

“Potions?” Draco murmured, his brow furrowing. “But then—”

“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore, raising voice so that it carried over all the muttering, “will be taking the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Draco’s mouth opened in silent surprise. He was not sure how to respond to that news--and Severus, had he known this already when Draco had been at his house? Why hadn’t he told Draco? Was this a part of the plan that he insisted was going as intended, arranged with Dumbledore? And what of the fact that their Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers always seemed to wind up dead or gone?

Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore’s right, did not stand up his mention of his name; he merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause, much of which was coming from the Slytherin table.

“Maybe Snape’ll go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” Pansy mused; from her expression, Draco could tell that she’d been wondering the same thing he was, at least as far as his last thought. “That Slughorn bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody hadn’t, the real Moody, I mean.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, commanding quiet again. Seemingly oblivious to the sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, he said nothing more about staff appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure that the silence was absolute before continuing. “Now, as everybody in this Hall is now aware, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength.”

The silence seemed to tauten and strain as Dumbledore spoke, and for once the mention of Voldemort’s name did not illicit dozens of screams or gasps. “I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe,” the Headmaster continued. “The castle’s magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that you teachers might impose upon you, however irksome you might find them—in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own and others’ safety.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more. “But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!”

With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches moved back and the hundreds of students began to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories. Draco followed suit, his mind whirling as he joined Pansy in the entrance hall; she was already calling out for Slytherin’s new first years, gesturing for them to gather together so that their Prefects could escort them to their dorms.

Whatever came of this year, he desperately hoped that it would not be the last one that Severus spent at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed our souls and motivate our writing. <3


	15. Suspended By This Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'You chose our cause over your freedom.'"

The next morning, Draco found he was rather looking forward to the day ahead. He was finally back in Hogwarts, safe from Voldemort and the Death Eaters for the time being. Despite the looming threat over his head, and the task he was “chosen” for, he had hope that things would work out in the end. He just had to keep an eye on everything around him, and find good times to meet with Ron and Hermione to catch up.

And, without Umbridge up their tails, it would probably be an easier feat than last year.

Heading down to breakfast with his Housemates, while also pausing to help a lost first year find his way out of the dungeons, Draco had a pleasant breakfast of eggs and sausage, while downing at least two cups of coffee, making Pansy sigh. “Do you plan on drinking any water today or shall you stick with the audacity that is the bean juice?”

“Your hatred for coffee fuels me,” Draco replied, pouring himself a third cup out of spite.

As breakfast was coming to a close, Severus started going down the table giving schedules out to the various Slytherins. It reminded him of his very first day back in first year, getting his first schedule and being so excited, counting down the days until he got to have Potions with his godfather. While the novelty itself had worn off, this year was special; Sixth years who managed to get into N.E.W.Ts levels were able to drop unnecessary classes, giving themselves more free periods to work on their homework. Already he knew what classes he wanted to drop.

After Severus gave Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle their schedules, he came to where Draco, Pansy and Theo were sitting.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Severus said formally, though there was a slight smile on his face. “Congratulations for getting all O’s in your O.W.Ls. Your parents were pleased. Now, for your N.E.W.Ts classes, do you still have the ambition to get into the Healers program?”

“Yes sir,” Draco said, sitting up even straighter. He was so close to that job, he could practically feel the lime green robes in his hands already. “I still need to take Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology and Potions.”

“Of course,” Severus said. “Are there any extra classes you wish to add?”

Draco thought it over for a minute. “I’d like to keep Ancient Runes, if possible. I do enjoy that class, Healer programs aside. It’s fascinating.”

“Indeed.” Severus’ lips twitched in another smile, but he tapped on the parchment on top of the pile he was holding, and the schedule wrote itself out quickly, before he handed it to the teenager and turned his attention to Pansy and Theo, who agreed to take the core classes and nothing more.

“I would have almost wanted to keep going to Care of Magical Creatures,” Theo admitted as the trio headed out of the Great Hall together. “But… Well, let’s be honest, with Hagrid teaching, I didn’t really learn much. Except how to not insult a hippogriff.”

“Ugh!” Draco rolled his eyes dramatically as Pansy giggled. “Will you ever let that go? I made  _ one  _ bloody mistake and I’ve learned my lesson. I’m never going near one of those horrid beasts ever again.” He checked his schedule then. “Right, you two, I’ve got Ancient Runes first thing, so I’ll see you later.”

They wished him luck, and he headed off, glad to find that Hermione, with whom he had shared the class with since third year, had not dropped it either. She looked a bit surprised, and delighted, to see him, before they both had to look away in an effort to not make anyone suspicious. When Professor Babbling arrived, she ushered the students in and allowed them to take their seats, welcoming them to their N.E.W.Ts level class, before warning them that this year was going to be tougher than the rest.   


“There’s a reason the next level exams are called  _ Nastily Exhausting _ ,” she reminded them a bit sternly. “Now, let’s check the syllabus for this year, and then take out your copies of  _ Runes for the Rushed _ , and turn to page five on chapter one.”

By the end of the class, Draco was already glad for the challenge, but not so glad for the coursework. As kindly as Professor Babbling was, she hadn’t been joking when she said she would have to get tougher. The assignment given at the end of the hour was a fifteen-inch essay, with two translations and three pages of runes that had to be translated by Wednesday. Even Hermione looked put upon at the assignment.

After exiting the classroom, those who were going off to a free period drifted to their own destinations, while the rest, with Draco and Hermione, wandered down the hallways four floors below the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

As usual, there was a general air of uncertainty and anticipation hovering over the students as they lined up outside of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for the first lesson of the year. This time was rather surreal, though, since it wasn’t an unknown professor--just one new to this subject.

The classroom door opened, and Severus stepped into the corridor. Silence fell over the queue immediately. “Inside,” he said.   


Draco looked around curiously as they all shuffled into the classroom. Severus had certainly already implemented his personality into the room; it was rather darker than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows, and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures.   


“I have not asked you to take out your books,” Severus began, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Draco did not miss that Hermione hastily dropped her copy of  _ Confronting the Faceless _ back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to you first, and I want your fullest attention.”   


His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Draco’s than anyone else’s. The teenager wasn’t sure what the look in his godfather’s eyes meant, but he offered a tenuous smile, which was returned.   


“You have had five teachers in this subject so far.” Severus sniffed slightly. “Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced.”   


Severus set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view. “The Dark Arts,” Severus went on, “are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible. Your defenses,” he added, a little more loudly, “must, therefore, be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures--” he indicated a few of them as he swept past. “--give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse--” he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony. “--feel the Dementor’s Kiss--” A wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall. “--or provoke the aggression of the Inferius--” A bloody mass upon the ground.   


“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” Parvati asked in a high-pitched voice, her dark eyes wide with fear. “Is it definite, is he using them?”   


“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” Severus replied, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now, then...”

He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him. Draco couldn’t help thinking that the dramatic flair was a bit much, but rather fitting for his godfather. “... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?”   


Hermione’s hand shot into the air without hesitation. Severus looked around once, whether to actually make sure that he gave anyone else a chance to answer, or to maintain the general belief that he disliked Hermione, before sighing, “Very well--Miss Granger?”   


“Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you’re about to perform,” said Hermione, “which gives you a split-second advantage.”   


“Correct,” Severus said, and Hermione looked surprised and pleased that he had nothing critical to add. Draco appreciated his godfather’s courtesy, even if it was more for Draco’s sake than for Hermione’s. “Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some, unfortunately, lack.”

Watching Severus, Draco thought back to their Occlumency lessons during the previous year. He had to hope that the struggle he’d had in those was not indicative of future failure. The mastery of non-verbal spells would be extremely useful.

“You will now divide,” Severus went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on.”   


Draco stood, moving to face Pansy as Theo leveled off with Blaise. It occurred to him that he, personally, had taught at least half of the present class--everyone who had been a member of the DA--how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year, and they were all excellent at it.   


None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however.

A considerable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud. Naturally, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville’s muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that earned her twenty points for Gryffindor. As Severus awarded her the points, Draco noticed that Crabbe stood a few feet away, watching Hermione with uncontained loathing on his face. Hearing the point count, he scowled, before being distracted as Goyle successfully hit him with a hex due to his lack of attention.

Severus swept among them as they practiced, pausing to watch Neville and Ron struggling with the task. Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Neville, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Neville had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.   


“Alright, Weasley, stop it,” Severus said wearily, after a while of observing this. “Here—let me show you—”   


He turned his wand on Neville, who startled so much at the abrupt change in pace that he appeared to react without thinking as he cried out, “Protego!” His Shield Charm was so strong Severus was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. Draco couldn’t help but think, distantly, that that kind of reaction time could never have been possible for poor Neville before he’d drilled so hard during the DA lessons.

The whole class stopped and looked around, watching as Severus righted himself, looking mildly surprised, and also rather grudgingly impressed. “Well, that was a better Shield Charm than I believe I have seen you produce in five years, Longbottom,” he said slowly. “But we are practicing non-verbal spells, so that performance remains inadequate.”

“Sorry, sir,” Neville almost squeaked, looking stunned that he hadn’t been hexed into dust on the spot. When Severus moved on, Neville gave Ron and Draco both a wide-eyed look of exhilaration, and Draco took the risk of giving him the quickest grin possible.

They left class with the task of practicing non-verbal spells in pairs, and Draco exited the classroom with Pansy, rubbing his head from getting whacked by a book that had gone flying when someone missed their target altogether during the lesson. As they rounded the corridor corner, a Gryffindor boy whose name he did not know hurried up to him, looking half-wary.   


“Malfoy--here, this is for you, from Professor Dumbledore,” he said, handing over a rolled sheet of parchment. “He caught me after class, said you’d be leaving Defense.”

“Thanks,” Draco said distractedly, stepping to the side in order to open it without holding up foot traffic. Immediately he recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment.   


_ Draco, _

_ I would like to invite you to come to my office this Saturday evening; there is an important matter that I wish to discuss with you, similar to the extracurricular lessons that I had you participate in previously with Professor Snape. If you would, please kindly come along to my office at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.   
_

_ Yours sincerely,   
_

_ Albus Dumbledore   
_

_ P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.   
_

“He enjoys Acid Pops?” Pansy said, who had read the message over Draco’s shoulder, and was looking perplexed at the Headmaster’s eccentricity.   


“Must be the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study,” Draco said, shrugging. “Wonder what he wants to discuss....Severus said I’m doing well enough with Occlumency not to need to meet weekly, but maybe Dumbledore wants to work on something else with me...”

Many of the sixth years now had free periods scattered throughout their days, and Draco took advantage of the current one to sit in the courtyard with Pansy and Theo, speculating on what Dumbledore might wish to speak to him about.   


“Maybe he wants to teach you some spectacular jinxes and hexes, stuff the Death Eaters wouldn’t know,” Theo mused, but Pansy snorted.   


“Spells like that would be illegal, and really--we know the men behind those masks.” Her face tightened. “I don’t imagine there’s a lot of advanced...well, Dark magic, that they don’t know. I’ll bet Dumbledore wants to show Draco more advanced Defensive magic.”   


They used the rest of the free hour to get started on Snape’s homework, which turned out to be so complex that they still had not finished when the bell rang for the afternoon’s double Potions. They beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape’s.   


When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle were there with four other Slytherins, though Draco was very surprised that the pair of them had made good enough O.W.L.s. Or perhaps Slughorn was just that much more lenient than Severus had been.   


Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Draco had come to like a little, despite his rather pompous manner, after working together all last year in the DA.   


“Ron, Hermione,” Ernie said in greeting, holding out his hand to them as they approached. Draco watched idly, noticing that Hermione’s hair had partially fallen out of the binding holding it back from her face, and a stray curl was tumbling across her shoulder. “I didn’t get a chance to speak to you in Defense Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat for us, of course, eh?”   


Before they could do more than smile back at him, the dungeon door opened and Slughorn’s belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Hermione and Blaise with particular enthusiasm, which made Draco blink in surprise.   


The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells. Draco saw Ron and Hermione sniffing interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons before reaching the table where Ernie was sitting. There were three seats remaining there, and the other two tables had already been occupied--one by the four Ravenclaws, and one by all the present Slytherins aside from Draco, Theo, and Pansy. Shrugging at them, Draco made his way to it, sitting down next to Hermione.

Under the cover of the table as Draco reached down to place his book bag on the floor, Hermione reached out. Draco smiled slightly to himself, hooking his fingers through hers and giving a gentle squeeze.  _ I missed you, too _ .

Their table was nearest to a gold-colored cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Draco had ever inhaled: Somehow it reminded him simultaneously of a library, with books and parchment and ink and wood polish from the tables, and something lighter and sweeter--perhaps vanilla, or something else used in baking. He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply, and that the potion’s fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Theo, who grinned back at him lazily.   


“Now then, now then, now then,” Slughorn began, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don’t forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making...”

“Oh, sir?” Ron called, raising his hand.   


“Yes, m’boy?”   


“I’m sorry, sir--I haven’t got a book or scales or anything—I didn’t realize I’d be able to do the N.E.W.T. class, you see—”   


“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention I’d have a few who hadn’t planned on it...not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I’m sure we can lend you some scales, and we’ve got a small stock of old books here, they’ll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts...just look in that cupboard against the wall, there--anyone else, who hasn’t got the textbook yet?”

Ron started toward the cupboard as instructed, and as Draco watched, Crabbe moved that way, too. Ron reached it first, and had just picked up one of the two copies of Advanced Potion-Making inside when Crabbe got to his side and yanked it from his hand. He said nothing, just shoulder-checked the redhead and turned to shuffle back to his place at his table. Ron glared after him, rubbing his arm, then rolled his eyes in annoyance and picked up the other book, coming back to his own seat as Slughorn handed him a set of older, tarnished scales.

“Now then,” Slughorn went on, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off, “I’ve prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ‘em, even if you haven’t made ‘em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?”   


He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Draco raised himself slightly in his seat, and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it. Hermione’s well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else’s; Slughorn pointed at her, beaming with seeming recognition.   


“It’s Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione. Draco raised his eyebrows, eyeing the cauldron with some trepidation. That could be the most dangerous thing in the room, from his perspective at least.   


“Very good, very good!” Slughorn chortled happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known... Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too... Who can—?”   


Hermione’s hand was fastest once more. “lt’s Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said. Draco saw Ron smirk, trading a look with Hermione that suggested some kind of inside joke or memory about the slow-bubbling, mud-like substance filling the second cauldron. Again, that little burst of confusing jealousy wormed at him, and Draco took a breath to try and combat it, once more filling his nose with the loveliness in the gold cauldron.   


“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here... yes, my dear?” Slughorn said, gesturing at the gold cauldron, and looking slightly amused as Hermione’s hand punched the air again.   


“It’s Amortentia!”   


“It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask,” Slughorn added, who was looking mightily impressed and pleased with her, “but I assume you know what it does?”   


“It’s the most powerful love potion in the world!” Hermione said, and her cheeks had gone a bit pink now. Draco looked at the softly shimmering contents again, surprised, wondering what on earth the scent of it meant, then.

“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”   


“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” Hermione confirmed enthusiastically. “And it’s supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us. For example, I can smell...mint, I think, and apples, and maybe cinnamon--” Hermione seemed to register what she was saying and abruptly went quiet, leaving the sentence incomplete. She looked down, blushing, and avoided looking at anyone for a moment.

Draco looked back at the Amortentia, his mind suddenly grinding to a halt.  _ Parchment and ink...book pages...vanilla _ ...

Beneath the table, something pressed into his hand. Draco leaned back and glanced down; Pansy had pressed a note into his palm. He unfolded it silently, and found her familiar handwriting within:  _ Your cologne smells like cinnamon _ ,  _ doesn’t it _ ?

Draco shot her a furious look, but she merely batted her lashes back at him, a slow grin filling her face. Merlin help him, she was never going to let him live this down.

“Very good, very good, Miss Granger--take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor,” Slughorn said genially. “Goodness me, Professor Dumbledore certainly did not exaggerate your prowess by calling you the best in your year, did he? Excellent, excellent.”

Draco ducked to hide his grin, throwing Hermione a proud look and the quickest of winks; she went bright pink again but couldn’t help beaming back, looking elated at the praise and at the points earned.

“Amortentia doesn’t really create  _ love _ , of course,” Professor Slughorn went on. “It is impossible to manufacture or imitate true love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—oh yes,” he said, nodding gravely at Crabbe and Blaise, both of whom were smirking skeptically.   


“When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love. And now,” Slughorn concluded, “it is time for us to start work.”   


“Sir, you haven’t told us what’s in this one,” Ernie spoke up, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn’s desk. The potion within was splashing about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.   


“Oho,” Slughorn said again, beginning to grin. Draco was instantly sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked about it for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, “that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”   


“It’s liquid luck,” Hermione said excitedly. “It makes you lucky!”   


The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. “Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it’s a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” Slughorn mused. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed... at least until the effects wear off.”   


“Why don’t people drink it all the time, sir?” Terry Boot asked eagerly.   


“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” Slughorn replied. “Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally...”   


“Have you ever taken it, sir?” Michael Corner asked with great interest.   


“Twice in my life,” Slughorn affirmed. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.” He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was play-acting or not, Draco had to admit, the effect was good.   


“And that,” Slughorn added, apparently coming back to earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.”   


There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.   


“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt. Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competitions... sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!”

He re-pocketed the vial, his voice turning brisk. “So! How are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!”   


There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them, and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible.

Draco spotted Crabbe rifling feverishly through his battered copy of Advanced Potion-Making; it could not have been clearer that he really wanted that lucky day. Draco bent swiftly over his own new copy.   


As usual, when it came to potion-making, the instructions that he found on the page were, frankly, limited. He had always been good at this subject, and some of that aptitude had stemmed not just from his own talent, but also from having a godfather who was possibly one of the most skilled Potions masters Draco had ever known.   


In fact, Draco had made the Draught of Living Death before--very well-supervised, of course, as it was a dangerous one--and Severus had shown him a variety of short-cuts and alternate steps that made a far better and more effective potion than what was written in the textbook in front of him. Draco pushed it aside after a moment, trusting his gut and going with the steps that he knew by heart.

Within ten minutes, the whole room was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to be the only one progressing as swiftly as Draco was; her potion already resembled the “smooth, black currant-colored liquid” that was described as the ideal halfway stage.   


Having finished chopping his Valerian roots, Draco glanced at the book again; he knew what he was doing, but there was no harm in keeping track of the standardized steps.

The next instruction was to cut up the sopophorous bean--Draco thought for a moment, then recalled the alternative method that Severus had proven to him was far more efficient: Crushing them with flat side of a silver dagger.

Draco glanced around, finding the tool that he needed was next to Hermione’s cauldron. “Can I borrow your silver knife?” She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though it ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now.   


He crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger, smiling when it immediately exuded so much juice that it was amazing the shriveled bean could have held it all. Scooping it all into the cauldron, he watched with satisfaction as the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook.   


Draco glanced at the next line of instructions. According to the book, he had to stir counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as water. Shaking his head in bemusement, Draco instead added a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir. The effect was immediate: the potion turned pale pink.   


“How are you doing that?” Hermione asked in surprise, staring over into his cauldron. She was red-faced and her hair was growing bushier and bushier from the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still resolutely purple.   


Draco chuckled softly, pushing the knife back towards her. “Crush the beans, don’t cut them,” he said softly, “and then for every seventh stir, add a clockwise stir. It’ll look like this in no time.”

Her eyebrows rose. “But the book says--”

“Just trust me.” He winked at her, smirking. “Unless you’re afraid of a little real competition, Granger?”

Instantly, it held the desired effect; the redness in her face got worse, and her jaw dropped slightly, before she smirked back, grabbing the knife. “You’re on, Malfoy.”

Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Draco wanted to help him too, but he was too far away for Draco to risk whispering to, and trying to speak cordially to Ron out loud would have Crabbe’s eyes locked onto him in a few seconds.   


So, he resorted to working in silence, as Hermione dutifully followed his advice, only to become astonished when it worked; her potion quickly turned lilac, and with every seventh stir, she added a clockwise one, causing the potion to become paler and paler, until both hers and Draco’s were a very pale shade of pink, just as the potion was supposed to look.   


At the last second, Draco stopped stirring, so that while his potion looked good, it was still a bit of a more vibrant shade of pink than Hermione’s.

“And time’s... up!” Slughorn called out. “Stop stirring, please!” He moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table where Draco was sitting.   


He smiled ruefully at the tar-like substance in Ron’s cauldron, and passed politely over Ernie’s navy concoction. Seeing Draco’s potion, he gave an approving nod, tapping his nose at the blonde with a cheery wink.   


And then he saw Hermione’s, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face. “The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon at large. “Excellent, most excellent, Miss Granger! Good lord, you really are quite a natural! Here you are, then, here you are—one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!”   


Looking stunned and rather starstruck, Hermione slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into her book bag.   


As they began packing their things to go, Draco made slower work of cleaning and packing up his ingredients, tools, and cauldron. Hermione was bent over her bag, seemingly sorting her books inside of it when she spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “You let me win.”

Draco looked over at her, letting his eyes widen ever-so-innocently and raising his eyebrows as if he wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You stopped stirring before he called time,” Hermione said, sounding half-accusing and half-touched. “You deserved to win, seeing as you were the one who knew those tricks to get it right.”

Draco shrugged, closing up his bag. “Well, make sure you put that liquid luck to a worthwhile use, then.” He smirked a little. “And you can make it up to me later for giving it to you.” Delighted to see her cheeks blossom with a bright pink blush once more, Draco turned to go and join Theo and Pansy at the door, feeling as good as though he had taken a swig of Felix Felicis, himself.

* * *

Despite how little he wanted to get started on his task from Voldemort, Draco knew that he could not stall forever; sooner or later, he would need to have an update. If not for the Dark Lord himself, at least to be reported to his aunt, and Draco did  _ not _ want to see Bellatrix displeased with his pace of action.

He knew where one Cabinet was, and that was a fine start. But short of risking his life by trying to enter that one and seeing where he was spat out--if he lived through the transportation in the first place--Draco had no idea how to determine where the twin was located. The only information that he had to go on was that it was at Hogwarts. Or at least, it  _ had _ been, and Peeves the Poltergeist had broken it long ago. Montague hadn’t been able to accurately remember how he’d wound up trapped inside of it, so he couldn’t even tell Draco for certain that the Weasley twins had known what, or where, it was now.

Draco was making his way along the seventh floor corridor when he was struck by a thought. It was a stretch, nothing founding the theory; but he was right there, and nobody else was around. It could hardly hurt to check.

Going to the familiar stretch of wall, Draco closed his eyes and began pacing back and forth. This time, though, he did not ask about a space where defensive magic could be practiced discreetly.  _ I need a place where things are hidden...I need the room where the broken Vanishing Cabinet was stored _ ...

He really doubted that this was going to work.

When Draco opened his eyes again, his eyes widened. There was a door again--a plain wooden one, more like a broom cupboard than the self-protecting space that the Room had provided for the DA’s use. Taking a deep breath, Draco grasped the handle and stepped inside.

It was like walking into some kind of garage or warehouse--one that was very, very disorganized. From where he stood, all that Draco could see was towers and piles and mountains of stuff--junk, and furniture, and knick-knacks ranging from clothing articles to books to broomsticks to broken wands. Taking slow steps forward, Draco coughed as dust rose from the nearest heaps--then jumped a little at the sound of glass tinkling.

Looking down, he saw that he’d accidentally bumped his feet against a few empty sherry bottles that now rolled away across the uncarpeted floor with hollow clinking noises.

“Room of Forgotten Things, maybe,” he muttered, looking around. “Well, you certainly provided what I asked for...now, if you could only give me a big glowing sign, telling me if the bloody Cabinet is even here at all...”

Making his way carefully along the narrow pathways that wound through the miscellaneous rubble, Draco noted how warm it was in the confined space. There was sweat under his collar. But he wasn’t about to roll up his sleeves--even if he did find the Cabinet in here, Draco still struggled with looking at his bare left arm, even when he was completely alone. It was just too painful.

He was dreading the day when he would have to tell Hermione the truth.

Passing a table on which there stood an ugly old marble bust of a wizard wearing a tattered wig and a tiara--now wasn’t that a fashionable combination--Draco rounded a corner in the maze, and then stopped dead. Ahead of him was a large, bulky shape, covered in an old cloth, but familiar in its outline.

Swallowing hard, Draco stepped closer, grabbing a hold of the edge of the cloth and dragging it down in a cloud of dust.

When his eyes stopped watering, Draco looked up, and his breath caught as he found himself looking at an exact replica of the Vanishing Cabinet that was in Borgin & Burkes. He had found it.

And now, he had no choice but to start working on repairing it.

* * *

It took some minor navigating, but eventually he was able to slip Hermione a note to meet him in the seventh floor corridor. Draco waited for her sitting next to one of the windows, holding a book that he couldn’t focus on to save his life--but if anyone but Hermione came along, he would appear to simply be taking advantage of a quiet spot to read, not waiting for a Gryffindor girl.

He heard footsteps approaching, and Draco tried not to question the fact that he knew before she rounded the corner that it was Hermione; he recognized her just by the rhythm of her walk. Putting his book away, Draco rose, crossing the hall to silently ask the Room for what he needed this time. By the time Hermione reached him, there was already a small, darkly polished door with a brass handle, and Draco opened it to let her in ahead of himself before stepping in and closing it securely behind them.

The Room of Requirement had accommodated him well; it was a small comfortable room rather like a drawing room in a home, with a fireplace and a few squishy armchairs before it, and a plush rug lining the floor.

“Come on--let’s sit,” he said softly, moving around to take one of the chairs. Hermione followed him, looking around the little space with a soft smile.

“Hard to wrap my mind around the fact that this was where we were practicing last year,” she remarked. “It was maybe three times larger, that way. But this...I imagine the Room could give me the most ideal little study nook possible.”

“Most likely,” Draco agreed softly, his voice unsteady. “Look, Hermione, I--I need to talk to you. I’ve got to....to update you about some stuff from the past summer. I’m sorry I couldn’t write to you--Pansy said she did for me, but--I hated not being able to talk freely--”

“I understood, you know I did,” Hermione said reassuringly, looking at him with worry in her eyes. “I was so scared I was endangering you, but I had to let you know that I was thinking of you....Draco, you’re....what is it, what do you need to tell me? You’re frightening me...”

Draco felt cold from his head to his feet. His heart was pounding, his palms feeling moist, and it felt as if his tongue was as dry as paper, making speech more difficult. But he supposed that he didn’t need words to just get this over with. He just had to show her. Draco closed his eyes, took a deep, fortifying breath, then unbuttoned his cuff and rolled his sleeve up to his elbow, just as he had done in front of Borgin. There was no confidence in his posture now, though, not even feigned, as the firelight fell on the Dark Mark.

He heard her tiny gasp; when Draco opened his eyes, Hermione was staring at him, her face openly horrified, tears sparkling in her eyes. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Draco....”

Draco nodded jerkily, dropping his as shame coiled viciously in his chest. “There was...I had no choice. If I had refused, I--he would have--”

In his peripheral vision she moved, and Draco started when he realized that Hermione was reaching out her hand towards his arm. He stared at her, but the look on her face had softened from shock to grief, and she paused with her hand outstretched, waiting for his permission. Draco forced himself to ease forward until he was sitting on the edge of the chair seat, extending his arm towards her and nodding again shallowly, indicating his consent.

Tentatively, Hermione took his hand in hers, then reached out with the other to carefully run just the tips of her index and middle fingers over the curling shape of the skull, and its serpent tongue. Her voice was still quiet. “Tell me.”

He had to lick his lips in order to moisten them enough to speak. Draco found himself barely speaking above a whisper, either; it seemed most appropriate. “After....after what happened at the Ministry. He was furious at my father. Got him out of Azkaban still, with the rest who were arrested that night, but...” Draco shuddered. “I--I was my father’s punishment.”

Hermione made a tiny, wounded sound, but did not interrupt. Draco pushed on, feeling as if every word was being dragged out of him with barbs digging into his throat. “It was so fucking twisted, Hermione, he described it like such an honor. I thought my mother was going to cry, but she didn’t dare. And it was a test, too--he didn’t force me to agree. He made me actually voice my consent, tell him that I  _ wanted _ it--”

He stopped, his breath becoming ragged for a second, and Hermione tightened her hand around his as if trying to bring him back to her, and to the present moment. Draco dragged his right hand over his face, composing himself. “It’s not all,” he said, and he felt her hand flex on his in wordless concern. “I’ve got...he...he’s given me a task.”

The restrictions, the order not to speak a word about this, made Draco’s throat tighten a little, and he forced his mind to clear.  _ I’m not telling her, I’m...giving a very vague warning. I’m not saying it _ .

He found his voice again. “I’m bound by an Unbreakable Vow.” Hermione gasped again, and Draco sighed, meeting her eyes again at last. “I know. I know, but...there was no escaping it. If I’d thought of a single loophole...” She nodded, eyes wide and watery, and did not pull her hand away. Draco put his other over hers, clasping it between both of his own.

“I promise you, I’ll manage this,” Draco whispered. “I’m going to make it. I’ve got Dumbledore helping me--and Severus, too. He’s protecting me, he made his own Vow--I can’t explain any of this more, and I fucking hate that, but I feel confident that it’s going to be okay in the end.”

There was a long moment of quiet between them, the only sounds their breathing, and the merry crackling of the little fireplace. Draco did not take his eyes off of Hermione, watching her expression as she parsed through the information he had told her. He saw her gaze go back to the Dark Mark again, but the initial fear was gone; now she looked only sad, and perhaps a little angry--at the symbol, and its meaning, not at him--before she looked back up at him again, and slowly nodded.

“I trust you,” she reminded him in a near-whisper. “You know that I do. And I know that Dumbledore isn’t going to let you get killed for this cause, not if he has anything to say about it. We’re...we’ll be alright.”

The fact that she was not turning on him--not angry  _ at _ him for what he’d had to do, not shoving him away and saying that they were no longer friends--had Draco nearly sagging with relief, and it must have shown on his face, because Hermione snorted a laugh. “Did you think I was going to slap you?” she asked with bemusement, still holding his hands tightly.

“Well, you have punched me before,” he reminded her dryly, and she grinned, even as she blushed a little. “But I’d like to think that my offense here is vastly different.”

“It isn’t  _ your _ offense,” she countered, and Draco watched in surprise as Hermione gently began unrolling his shirt sleeve for him, covering the Mark with shockingly tender movements, and buttoning his cuff back up for him. “This is all on Voldemort. You’re exactly right--if you’d tried to resist, even for a moment, if could have meant your death. You have nothing to apologize for, to me or to anyone, Draco.”

He sighed softly. “Well, I appreciate that...but there’s more to this. I mean, nothing more I need to admit to you, but--” Draco grimaced. “I’m not just telling you in order to make sure I’m staying honest with you, though that is definitely the biggest factor. I’m also here because I’ll need your help backing me up. With the others, I mean, in the DA. The last thing I want is for Ron or Neville or Luna--any of them--to become suspicious of me, or think I was  _ happy _ about--about this,” he said gesturing at his now-covered arm. “I need you with me when I tell them.”

Hermione looked awed, and rather touched. “Well, you’re putting a lot of faith in me, and in their willingness to trust my word,” she said, smiling faintly. “But yes, of course I’ll help you. Don’t worry, Draco. We’ll handle this.”   


Releasing his hands, Hermione dug in her pocket--and to Draco’s surprise, she held up the modified Galleon that she had Charmed the year before, to allow the DA to communicate with each other. “May as well get it over with, right?” she said, and though Draco’s heart immediately leapt up to lodge itself in his throat, he forced himself to nod slowly. She wasn’t wrong...stalling would just make it harder.

Despite the late evening hour, the summons was answered fairly quickly; Draco and Hermione stepped out of the room, then back into it, finding it changed at their request back into the same training room that it had been for them before, complete with large bean-bag like chairs. Draco smiled a little at the sight of it, feeling comforted by the familiarity. This was a room where he belonged, and where he and the other DA members were equals. Friends.

Slowly the others arrived, until they had the entire original group--except for those who had left the year before, whether that was Fred and George’s flight or completion of their schooling, such as was the case for Angelina Johnson. Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe were gone, too, but no one showed much remorse over that.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” Ginny remarked, flopping onto one of the squishy seats next to Luna. “I mean, I figured we wouldn’t have any reason to meet up now, right? What with having an actual professor again for Defense. Though I admit, I’m actually vaguely terrified of Snape in that classroom.”

Draco smiled faintly. “Yes, that’s so--we don’t need these meetings, not like we did last year. But--we are a team, after all, the DA still exists--”

“Cheers to that,” Neville said eagerly, and there were murmurs of assent. “Dumbledore’s Army, for life.”

Hermione moved away from the wall, coming to Draco’s side and nodding at him encouragingly.  _ No sense in drawing it out _ . Draco sighed, looking around at his friends’ smiling faces, hoping that he was not about to see their expressions morph into hatred.

“You all know I had to go back--back home, this past summer,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “Unlike Pans and Theo, that meant I was right back in the heart of the storm--he’s still living there, in Malfoy Manor.” There were shivers, and sympathetic looks, and Draco caught Pansy’s eye; she was looking at him with wide eyes, clearly sensing that he was about to share something that she hadn’t known yet.

He couldn’t bring himself to roll up his sleeve again. Draco did not want them to see it; it had been agonizing enough, letting Hermione. “Lord Voldemort has decided that he can use me, since I’m here at Hogwarts,” Draco said slowly. Few of the people in this room had been at the Ministry the night of the battle; not everyone here would understand if he said that Voldemort had wished to punish his father. Some of them probably didn’t even know that Lucius had been there, or arrested afterward.

“He inducted me into the Death Eaters, formally.” Draco felt the words burning through him, every syllable feeling like poison flowing through him. “I--I’ve been branded with the Dark Mark.”

Instantly, there was a swell of reaction--several gasps or soft cries, a few recoils, hands clasping to mouths and faces turning stony. Draco couldn’t stop his flinch, but he was prevented from stepping back when Hermione moved directly to his side, slipping her hand into his, as if this was the most normal thing possible. And she stared back at the others as they quieted, taking in her show of clear support for Draco.

On the far side of the room, Ron was looking thunderstruck, and his gaze continued jumping from Draco’s face down to where Hermione was holding the blonde’s hand, a frown crossing the redhead’s features.

The first person to speak up--and it really should not have surprised Draco, he had to admit--was Luna. Her voice was soft, not as dreamlike as it often was, but sincere and sorrowful. “You must have been very frightened,” she said, sitting upright on the chair, eyes locked on his. “I’m so proud of you for not breaking, Draco. You chose our cause over your freedom--you kept your cover, even at a terrible cost.”

Draco felt tears sting his eyes, and there was absolutely no stopping them. He nodded weakly, not even caring when he felt one warm teardrop slip down his face, feeling as if it was burning his cold skin. “Thanks, Luna.”

Luna’s words seemed to have broken the initial wave of negative reaction, and now everyone was just looking at him with regret and respect. Then Ron spoke, eyebrows raised. “Does Snape know? About the Mark I mean, not you spying.”

“He does,” Draco confirmed quietly. “We have to have each others’ backs. He knows about both.” Seeing Ron’s genuine surprise, Draco sighed. “I don’t have details to offer, Weasley, but I do know that Dumbledore’s not wrong. If Severus really wasn’t for us, for the Order--he could’ve slipped at any point and turned me in.”   


He thought of the intensity of emotion he’d seen in his godfather’s face, after he’d accidentally seen the older man’s memories of Lily Potter, and how Severus had warned him to be careful for Hermione’s sake if he truly cared for her the way that Draco did. “I don’t know his whole life’s story, but I do know that he’s as loyal to Dumbledore as I am--to Dumbledore, and to you all,” Draco finished.

There was a long pause, and then Pansy pushed herself to her feet, coming forward without a word and wrapping her arms around Draco tightly. He rolled his eyes fondly--she bloody well knew that he was not a hugger--but then Luna was on her feet and coming forward, too.   


“Wait--” Draco started, torn between a groan and a laugh, but the wave of affection had apparently been activated. The whole bloody DA was rising and coming forward, and he was suddenly buried in an impossibly large group hug.

At the center of the pile, he felt Hermione’s hand still in his, her fingers squeezing his in affirmation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that got adorable.


	16. Smoke Rose Up Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'Perhaps we were wrong before, to say that you are not marked just as Harry Potter was. Differently, but still...life-changing.'”

For the rest of the week, Draco couldn’t decide what he thought Professor Dumbledore was going to want to cover with him. Whatever it was, though...Draco knew that the evening would also have to involve him revealing the Dark Mark to the Headmaster. He’d been bolstered by the support from Hermione, and the rest of the DA, but he knew that the acceptance of his peers would not guarantee it from Dumbledore. 

And the thought of Dumbledore turning on him now, after everything thus far, made a dark, cold pit form in the base of Draco’s stomach.

Saturday found him tucked away in the corner of the Slytherin common room, devoting the afternoon and early evening to an attempt at reducing the mountain of homework that was slowly suffocating the sixth years. 

Every hour or so Pansy became too cranky to continue, and would stop to paint her nails, exchange inappropriate sign language with the merfolk through the window, or nap using either Draco or Theo’s legs for a pillow. Draco kept an eye on the clock, exceptional grateful that it took until around 7:50 for Pansy’s boredom to morph into her trying to cajole one of the two boys to allow her to paint their nails a shocking bright pink.

“It’s nearly eight, I’d better go, I’ll be late for Dumbledore.” 

“Oh, that’s right!” Pansy said, distracted from Theo’s very grudgingly surrendered hand. “Good luck! We’ll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches you!” 

“Hope it goes okay,” Theo agreed, and the pair of them watched Draco leave the common room. 

He hurried off again until he reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood against the wall. “Acid Pops,” Draco said, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Draco stepped, so that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore’s Office. 

“Come in,” Dumbledore’s voice came when Draco had knocked. 

“Good evening, sir,” Draco said as he walked into the headmaster’s office. 

“Ah, good evening, Draco. Sit down,” Dumbledore welcomed him, smiling. “I hope you’ve had an enjoyable first week back at school?” 

“Yes, thanks, sir,” Draco confirmed, looking around surreptitiously for some indication of what Dumbledore was planning to discuss with him this evening. The circular office looked just as it always did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Fawkes stood on his perch behind the door, watching Draco with bright interest. It did not even look as though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling practice. 

“So, Draco,” said Dumbledore, in a businesslike voice. “You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you during these—for want of a better word—lessons?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, as I have been learning all that I can towards the goal of defeating Lord Voldemort, I have discovered information that, the more I find of it, the more I believe will be invaluable towards the task of stopping him. And while I know you are in a precarious position, balancing between the two sides as you are, it is also my belief that this information would be beneficial to you.” Dumbledore regarded him with solemnity. “In truth, Draco...and I do not say this with the intention of alarming you...I feel that by coming to me at the beginning of last year, as you did, you essentially stepped forward to take up the mantle that our young Mr. Potter was burdened with for the duration of his short life.”

There was a long pause as Draco processed that, wanting to be sure that he understood the Headmaster. “But...it isn’t as if I can be the ‘Chosen One,’” he pointed out uncertainly. “I’m in a uniquely perfect position to spy, yes, but the Dark Lord doesn’t have anything to fear from me. Po--Harry was the one who could have stopped him.”

Dumbledore smiled a touch sadly. “Indeed, you are not marked as Lord Voldemort’s greatest enemy in the same way that Harry was, with the protection of his mother’s love built into his blood, or that distinctive scar upon his forehead.” Draco’s left arm twinged, and his mouth went dry, wondering how he would find the courage to get the words out and tell Dumbledore about his own new “scar.” 

“But,” Dumbledore continued, “I do believe that your circumstances set you well apart from your peers, in opposition to Voldemort. At any rate; I am confident in the need for me to share this information with one of you young new fighters, and extensive consideration has led me to the conclusion that it ought to be you.”

Draco’s frown deepened. “I don’t wish to be argumentative, Professor, but I can’t help thinking that perhaps Hermione would be the better choice...”

The Headmaster’s smile softened. “Miss Granger is, indeed, an exceptional young witch, and she will be vital to you in the coming conflict. But, unless you strenuously object, I assure you that I have determined you to be the best individual for these lessons.”

It took a moment to get his mouth working again, but Draco nodded, then found his voice again. “Yes, sir. I mean--I won’t say I’m not afraid, but I won’t back down from this.”

Dumbledore regarded him thoughtfully. “I would be concerned if you were not afraid, Draco. But your courage is admirable. So--”

“Professor?” Draco interrupted him, and the Headmaster paused to let him speak, gesturing encouragingly. Draco knew that he could not go forward with whatever it was that Dumbledore was about to show him without telling the older wizard the truth; if it changed Dumbledore’s mind, and he deemed it unwise to continue with Draco, then so be it. He swallowed, heart hammering as he tried to find the words.

“This summer,” he began slowly. “I--well. You remember you told me, at the end of last spring, that I would need to be particularly careful while back at the Manor--” Draco could not bring himself to say  _ home _ , for it was not that anymore. “--and that I needed to be braced to do whatever was necessary in order to remain safe, and undetected as a spy? To cooperate fully, even when it was awful?” Dumbledore nodded gravely, and Draco opened his mouth, then stalled again. 

It felt too painful to speak it, as if hearing his own voice saying it would make it more real than it already was. Finally Draco sighed; just as he had done when telling Hermione the truth, he met the Headmaster’s gaze and opened his sleeve, rolling it up to reveal the Mark that tainted his skin.

Professor Dumbledore gazed at the symbol for a long, quiet moment, his face unreadable. Then he looked back into Draco’s eyes, and to the teenager’s shock, he was wearing a very kind, very gentle sort of smile. “Professor Snape came to me, the very night that you were subjected to that,” he told Draco quietly. “He knew that Lord Voldemort would implement vows during your initiation that might prevent you from telling me--or that even if he did not, you would almost certainly struggle under the overwhelming burden of it. But I felt strongly that I should leave it in your hands whether you came to me or not, and I would not have thought any less of you if you did not.”

Draco blinked, stunned. “But--sir, doesn’t it--I mean--”

“It changes nothing about the good man that you have become,” Dumbledore said simply. “I will not be cruel and say it has no effect on you; we both know that that is quite impossible, for that is a curse that has been branded into your very flesh.” His smile turned a tough wry. “Perhaps we were wrong before, to say that you are not marked just as Harry Potter was. Differently, but still...life-changing.”

Draco swallowed again, feeling as if he was simultaneously able to breathe again, and also about to begin sobbing. “Do you know how it...it might change me?”

The Headmaster’s eyes sharpened, and he tapped one of his uninjured fingers against his lips thoughtfully. “I can theorize, and will continue to observe and share with you my views as they develop,” he replied. “I have only Severus’ experience to compare it to, and, well, the two of you have very different journeys where the Dark Mark is concerned.”

“How so?” Draco asked, surprised. “We’re both....well, defected Death Eaters, aren’t we?”

“No,” Dumbledore said promptly. “That describes Severus, certainly, but you...you have not been a Death Eater for even a moment, Draco. My dear boy, you must armor yourself with that comfort; you cannot defect from a following that you never desired to be a part of. I know that much of your inner turmoil stems from your relationship with your father, and your longing to emulate him as a child...but you never truly stepped fully into the darkness in which Lucius walks willingly.”

He shrugged. “In the long term, Draco, that symbol on your forearm will ultimately be just another battle scar.” Dumbledore chuckled, raising his disfigured hand with a rueful expression. “War does not leave anyone entirely unscathed, I’m afraid. Now, then...with that settled, if you are alright, let us begin.” 

Draco nodded, feeling infinitely more calm and prepared as he rolled his sleeve back down. Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk, past  Draco , who turned in his seat to watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside the door. When Dumbledore straightened up, he was holding a shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim, one that Draco recognized without ever having used or been close to one. Dumbledore placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of  Draco .

“Where are we going, sir?” Draco asked curiously, wondering how memories related to information that could help them against Voldemort. 

“For a trip down Bob Ogden’s memory lane,” Dumbledore replied, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance. 

“Who was Bob Ogden?” 

“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Dumbledore explained. “He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Draco...” 

Dumbledore appeared to be having difficulty pulling out the stopper of the crystal bottle, his injured hand seemingly stiff and painful. “Shall—shall I open it, sir?” Draco asked tentatively, not wishing to be disrespectful but wanting to be of use.

“No matter, Draco—” Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out. 

“Sir—how did you injure your hand?” Draco tried asking, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture of revulsion and pity. 

“Now is not the moment for that story, Draco. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden.” Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas. “After you,” Dumbledore added, gesturing toward the bowl. 

Draco bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery surface. He felt his feet leave the office floor; then he was falling, falling through whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him. They were standing in a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. 

Some ten feet in front of them stood a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to mole-like specks. He was reading a wooden signpost that was sticking out of the brambles on the left-hand side of the road. Draco assumed that this must be Ogden; he was the only person in sight, and he was also wearing the strange assortment of clothes so often chosen by inexperienced wizards trying to look like Muggles: in this case, a frock coat and spats over a striped one-piece bathing costume. 

Before Draco had time to do more than register his bizarre appearance, however, Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane. Dumbledore and Draco followed. As they passed the wooden sign, Draco looked up at its two arms. The one pointing back the way they had come read: Great Hangleton, 5 miles. The arm pointing after Ogden said Little Hangleton, 1 mile. 

They walked a short way with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Draco could see a village, presumably Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn. Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the steep downward slope. 

Dumbledore lengthened his stride, and Draco hurried to keep up. He thought Little Hangleton must be their final destination and wondered, as he had done on the night they had found Slughorn, why they had to approach it from such a distance. He soon discovered that he was mistaken in thinking that they were going to the village, however. The lane curved to the right and when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very edge of Ogden’s frock coat vanishing through a gap in the hedge. 

Dumbledore and Draco followed him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping down-hill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the track soon opened up at the copse, and Dumbledore and Draco came to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand. Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds before Draco’s eyes discerned the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks. 

It seemed to him a very strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking all light and the view of the valley below. He wondered whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could possibly live there, however, one of the windows was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking. 

Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Draco, rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake. Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so fast he stood on the tails of his frock coat and stumbled. 

“ _ You’re not welcome _ .” The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Draco could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces before he spoke.

“Er—good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic—” 

_ “You’re not welcome _ .” 

“Er—I’m sorry—I don’t understand you,” said Ogden nervously.

Draco raised his eyebrows, eyeing Ogden skeptically at his words; the stranger was making himself very clear in Draco’s opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in one hand and a short and rather bloody knife in the other. Feeling Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder, Draco looked at the Headmaster; Dumbledore was watching him, and now nodded to indicate that they should move closer in order to see and hear more clearly.

The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other. “Now, look here—” Ogden began, but too late: There was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers. 

“Morfin!” called out a loud voice. An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. 

He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground. “Ministry, is it?” the older man asked, looking down at Ogden. 

“Correct!” Ogden said angrily, dabbing his face. “And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?” 

“S’right,” Gaunt replied. “Got you in the face, did he?” 

“Yes, he did!” Ogden snapped. 

“Should’ve made your presence known, shouldn’t you?” Gaunt threw back aggressively. “This is private property. Can’t just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself.” 

“Defend himself against what, man?” Ogden demanded, clambering back to his feet. 

“Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.” Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. “ _ Get in the house. Don’t argue _ .” His voice was oddly rougher when he said it, sounding quite similar to how the younger wizard--Morfin--had spoken, and Draco looked to Ogden to see how he was taking all of this.

Morfin seemed to be on the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again. 

“It’s your son I’m here to see, Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden told him, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his coat. “That  _ was _ Morfin, wasn’t it?” 

“Ay, that was Morfin,” the old man said indifferently. “Are you pureblood?” he asked, suddenly aggressive again. 

“That’s neither here nor there,” Ogden said coldly, and Draco felt his respect for Ogden rise slightly. 

Apparently Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogden’s face and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to be an offensive tone, “Now I come to think about it, I’ve seen noses like yours down in the village.” 

“I don’t doubt it, if your son’s been let loose on them,” Ogden retorted. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?” 

“Inside?” 

“Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I’ve already told you. I’m here about Morfin. We sent an owl—” 

“I’ve no use for owls,” said Gaunt. “I don’t open letters.” 

“Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors,” Ogden said tartly. “I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning—” 

“All right, all right, all right!” Gaunt bellowed, cutting him off. “Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it’ll do you!” 

The house, as Draco and Dumbledore followed the two men into it, appeared to contain three tiny rooms. Two doors led off of the main room, which served as kitchen and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it: “ _ Hissy, hissy, little snakey, Slither on the floor. You be good to Morfin. Or he’ll nail you to the door.”  _ Draco stared at him in mild revulsion, wondering what was wrong with him.

There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window, and Draco realized that there was somebody else in the room: a girl whose ragged gray dress was the exact color of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalid-looking pots and pans above it. Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother’s, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Draco thought he had never seen a more defeated-looking person, and his heart squeezed a bit in sympathy at the sight of her. 

“M’daughter, Merope,” Gaunt muttered grudgingly, as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her. Her father appeared to wish she wasn’t there at all.

“Good morning,” Ogden said graciously. She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her. “Well, Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden said, refocusing, “to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.” 

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots. “Pick it up!” Gaunt bellowed at her. “That’s it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what’s your wand for, you useless sack of muck?” 

“Mr. Gaunt, please!” Ogden cried in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again, drew her wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in two. 

Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!” 

Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and said firmly, “Reparo.” The pot mended itself instantly. 

Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it: Instead, he jeered at his daughter, “Lucky the nice man from the Ministry’s here, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn’t mind dirty Squibs...” 

Without looking at any of them, or thanking Ogden, Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her back against the wall between the filthy window and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish. Draco found himself glaring at Gaunt, desperately hoping that someone would punch this man before the memory was finished with; he definitely need to be taught some bloody manners.

“Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden began again, “as I’ve said: the reason for my visit—” 

“I heard you the first time!” Gaunt snapped back. “And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him—what about it, then?” 

“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” Ogden countered sternly. 

“‘Morfin has broken Wizarding law.’“ Gaunt imitated Ogden’s voice, making it pompous and singsong. Morfin cackled again. “He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that’s illegal now, is it?” 

“Yes,” Ogden said in a cold tone. “I’m afraid it is.” He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it. 

“What’s that, then, his sentence?” Gaunt demanded, his voice rising angrily. 

“It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing—” 

“Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?” 

“I’m Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,” Ogden replied irritably. 

“And you think we’re scum, do you?” Gaunt screamed, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. “Scum who’ll come running when the Ministry tells ‘em to? Do you know who you’re talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?” 

“I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden said, looking wary, but standing his ground. 

“That’s right!” Gaunt roared. For a moment, Draco thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden’s eyes. Now that was one hell of a loophole, if Draco had ever seen one. “See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it’s been in our family, that’s how far back we go, and pureblood all the way! Know how much I’ve been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?” 

Draco startled, trying to lean in for a closer look at the ring. Merlin, was he distantly  _ related _ to these animalistic people? The Peverell family was old, very old--but it was directly linked to the Blacks, which made them his maternal ancestors.

“I’ve really no idea,” Ogden said, blinking as the ring sailed within an inch of his nose, “and it’s quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed—” 

With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. For a split second, Draco thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; the next moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck. “See this?” he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath. 

“I see it, I see it!” Ogden said hastily, looking as if he wanted to rescue her from her father’s grip but was unsure of how to do so.

“Slytherins!” Gaunt went on, still yelling. “Salazar Slytherin’s! We’re his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?” 

“Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!” Ogden cried in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air. 

“So!” said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. “Don’t you go talking to us as if we’re dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all—more than you can say, I don’t doubt!” 

And he spat on the floor at Ogden's feet. Morfin cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window, her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, said nothing. 

“Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden pressed on doggedly, “I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter at hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night. Our information—” He glanced down at his scroll of parchment. “--is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives.” 

Morfin giggled. “ _ Be quiet, boy, _ ” Gaunt snarled back at him, and Morfin fell silent again. “And so what if he did, then?” Gaunt said defiantly to Ogden, “I expect you’ve wiped the Muggle’s filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot—” 

“That’s hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?” Ogden asked sharply. “This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless—” 

“Arr, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you,” Gaunt sneered, and he spat on the floor again. 

“This discussion is getting us nowhere,” Ogden said firmly. “It is clear from your son’s attitude that he feels no remorse for his actions.” He glanced down at his scroll of parchment again. “Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg—” 

Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in through the open window. Apparently the winding lane to the village passed very close to the copse where the house stood. 

Gaunt froze, listening, his eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her head. Her face, Draco saw, had gone starkly white. 

“My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl’s voice, as clearly audible through the open window as if she had stood in the room beside them. “Couldn’t your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?” 

“It’s not ours,” a young man’s voice replied. “Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son’s quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village—” 

The girl laughed, drowning out the rest of his words. The jingling, clopping noises were growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of his armchair. “ _ Keep your seat _ ,” said his father warningly. 

“Tom,” came the girl’s voice again, now so close they were clearly right beside the house, “I might be wrong—but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?” 

“Good lord, you’re right!” the man’s voice replied, sounding nauseated. “That’ll be the son, I told you he’s not right in the head. Don’t look at it, Cecilia, darling.” 

The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing faint again. “ _ ‘Darling _ ,’” whispered Morfin, looking at his sister with vicious, mocking delight. “‘ _ Darling, he called her. So he wouldn’t have you anyway _ .” 

Merope was so white Draco felt sure she was going to faint. 

“ _ What’s that _ ?” Gaunt asked sharply, looking from his son to his daughter. “ _ What did you say, Morfin?” _

“ _ She likes looking at that Muggle _ ,” said Morfin, a triumphant expression on his face as he stared at his sister, who now looked terrified, and even Draco’s heart seemed to stutter in his chest with fear for her. “ _ Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn’t she? And last night _ —” Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but Morfin went on ruthlessly, “ _ Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn’t she _ ?”

“ _ Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle _ ?” Gaunt repeated quietly. All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten that Ogden was there, and he was looking at them once more as if completely lost. For all that Draco could respect his attitude about blood status, he had to wonder if the man was a bit dim. The rising tension between the father and daughter was intense enough that Draco could almost taste the impending violence.

“ _ Is it true _ ?” Gaunt went on in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. “ _ My daughter—pureblooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin—hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle? _ ” Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak. 

“ _ But I got him, Father _ !” Morfin cackled. “ _ I got him as he went by and he didn’t look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope _ ?”

“ _ You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor _ !” Gaunt roared, losing control, and his hands closed around his daughter’s throat before Draco registered that he had lunged at her. 

Both Draco and Ogden yelled “No!” at the same time; Ogden raised his wand and cried, “Relashio!” Gaunt was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand. 

Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they ought to follow, and Draco obeyed, Merope’s screams echoing in his ears. Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark-haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the horse’s flank and set off again, his frock coat flying, covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell up the lane. 

“I think that will do, Draco,” Dumbledore murmured. He took Draco by the elbow and tugged. 

Next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through the darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore’s now twilit office. “What happened to the girl in the cottage?” Draco asked at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. “Merope, or whatever her name was?” 

“Oh, she survived,” Dumbledore assured him, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Draco should sit down too. “Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months.” 

“Marvolo?” Draco repeated, confused. 

“The elder Mr. Gaunt,” Dumbledore clarified. “That ‘gentleman,’ though he certainly did not behave as one, was Marvolo Gaunt...and he was Lord Voldemort’s paternal grandfather.”

“That old man was—?” Draco’s voice emerged sounding slightly strangled. 

“Voldemort’s maternal grandfather,” Dumbledore repeated, nodding. “Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter.” 

“So...Merope,” Draco said slowly, leaning forward in his chair and staring at Dumbledore in disbelief. “Merope was... does that mean she was... Voldemort’s mother?” 

“It does,” Dumbledore confirmed. “And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort’s father. I wonder whether you noticed?” 

“The Muggle who Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?” 

“Very good indeed,” Dumbledore praised him, beaming. “Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion.” 

“And...they ended up married?” Draco asked in bewilderment, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love. 

“I think you are forgetting,” Dumbledore said gently, “that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years. Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?” 

“The Imperius Curse?” Draco suggested. “Or a love potion?” 

“Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of water. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire’s son ran off with the tramp’s daughter, Merope. But the villagers’ shock was nothing to Marvolo’s. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done.” 

Dumbledore sighed. “From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death—or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage.” 

“And Merope? She...when did she die, did she live to see...what her son became?”

“She did not,” Dumbledore replied gravely. “The boy who would grow up to become Lord Voldemort was brought up in an orphanage.” He drummed his fingers lightly on the armrest of his chair. “We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighborhood that he was talking of being ‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’ What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason.” 

“But she did have his baby,” Draco said, still more confused.

“But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant.” 

“What went wrong?” Draco asked. “Why did the love potion stop working?” 

“Again, this is merely guesswork,” Dumbledore replied, “but I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby’s sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son.” 

The sky outside had gone quite dark as night fell properly, and the lamps in Dumbledore’s office seemed to glow more brightly than before. 

“I think that will do for tonight, Draco,” Dumbledore said after a moment or two. “Before you retire for the evening, however...there is something else very important from this memory that we need to discuss. It does not relate to Lord Voldemort, however, but rather to you.” He gestured to Draco’s arm. “To you, and to a question you asked earlier after sharing that information with me. You asked how the Mark is going to affect you.”

Draco nodded, feeling slightly light-headed; he could tell that he was about to be told something that would change absolutely everything. 

Dumbledore leaned forward. “When we were in Mr. Ogden’s memory, Draco, did you notice that he appeared to be struggling to understand what was being said to him, when he first arrived at the Gaunt house?”

“Yes...” Draco raised his eyebrows. “I mean, they had fairly heavy accents, but it was like one minute he couldn’t understand them and the next he was fine. What was that about?”

The Headmaster looked at him gravely. “In those moments when it appeared that Ogden could not understand the Gaunts’ speaking...it was because they, like their famous ancestor in whose House you belong, were speaking Parseltongue.”

There was a very long silence. Draco stared back at Dumbledore, waiting for the punchline, or the explanation that would actually make sense. But Dumbledore simply continued gazing at him with patience and something oddly like pity, and Draco’s gut twisted with discomfort. “But I understood them, Professor. And I’m not a Parselmouth.”

Dumbledore did smile then, but the expression was more compassionate than humorous. “You were not, no. Until, quite against your will and with no genuine consent in your heart, you were branded by Lord Voldemort himself with a curse more or less of his own invention.” 

The older man sighed heavily. “In every man and woman who has taken the Dark Mark before you, Draco, it has done its intended purpose; it binds them to him, letting him have intimate control in their lives--not possession, or any kind of mind-reading or the like, but they are forever connected to Lord Voldemort in a physical and spiritual manner that rewrites their very humanity. A Death Eater touching the Dark Mark tells Voldemort exactly where they are, and summons him to them. And, because of the power and evil that Lord Voldemort has imbued that symbol with, when he places it on the skin of one of his servants it, in fact, amplifies their existing magic. Not the way that a wand does, for any given witch or wizard on the street...but rather like a Patronus, which feeds on the purity and happiness in one’s soul in order to protect them.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, but Draco didn’t have the first idea of what to do or say; he could only wait, almost holding his breath, and the Headmaster continued.

“The Mark draws on the negative aspects of its bearers’ magic--their inherent darkness, their malice and anger and willingness to cause pain or suffering at their Master’s bidding. Think of your aunt--never a particularly sweet woman, even when she was young, but certainly not as terrible as she is now that she is the most intimate companion to Voldemort himself. His evil fuels hers--even creates it.”

Draco’s voice sounded strange in his own ears, too thin, unsteady. “None of the others with the Dark Mark are Parselmouths.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No, they would not be. They consented to their initiations, and welcomed the symbol of their chosen allegiance--they welcomed being branded, and the link that it formed between themselves and the Mark’s creator. Picture, if you will, the difference between holding your hand out with open fingers, versus offering it as a closed fist; every person who bears the Dark Mark, besides you, held their hands out to Lord Voldemort willingly, inviting the tattoo, and gladly saying the vows that I’m sure you were forced to speak.”

Draco nodded numbly. The words had tasted like poison on his tongue.

“Your hand was closed,” Dumbledore told him gently. “Your soul was not open to him, and still is not. And as a result...something has happened that Lord Voldemort could never have fathomed in all his wildest imaginings.”

“Which is?”

The Headmaster smiled, warmly this time. “The connection that has been formed between you is one that, if the Dark Lord were aware of it, would terrify him fully on the same level that Harry Potter’s survival and continued existence did.”

Draco sat upright, a laugh that had absolutely no humor in it escaping from him. “What does that--he’s not afraid of  _ me _ .”

“No, but he ought to be,” Dumbledore said, and now his eyes were blazing with some of the same fire that Draco had seen in them at the most intense possible moments, such as when Dumbledore had arrived in the Veil Room at the Department of Mysteries. “When he applies that brand, he creates a channel through them which, when the recipient is willing, Lord Voldemort feeds on them while giving back only darkness, and doom. You, though...he hasn’t the slightest inkling, perhaps because of your skill as a Legilimens or perhaps simply due to his absolute arrogance, but Lord Voldemort will gain nothing by the brand he has placed on you.”

“You said they draw only darkness from him, through the--the connection, of having his Mark,” Draco said, and Dumbledore nodded, gesturing to encourage him to talk through it. “What do I draw from him?”

Dumbledore beamed at him, pointing his uninjured hand triumphantly at the teenager. “Exactly the right question, dear boy, exactly. And the answer...is monumental.” He leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard. “For one thing, the gift of Parseltongue. You now possess this rare and unique talent, because Lord Voldemort possesses it.”

“But how?” Draco burst out, his confusion morphing into something a little more hysterical. “What does that  _ mean _ , what--is it--is he in my head now? How is it not some form of possession?”

Dumbledore stood, beginning to pace, and Draco was nearly tempted to mimic the motion. “Fifteen years ago, when Lord Voldemort murdered an innocent woman before attempting to kill her infant child, that boy lived,” he told Draco, who reeled back at the sudden change in direction. They were talking about Harry now, instead of himself?

“Lily Potter’s sacrifice created a very specific, very old kind of blood magic,” Dumbledore told him, his strides keeping him facing Draco so that they could continue to watch one another. “It was the incarnation of her love, embodied in his very blood--when Voldemort possessed the body of Professor Quirrell, in your first year, he could not lay hands on Harry because he was physically tainted by evil, and Harry’s blood was steeped in a love that is stronger than absolutely any other magical force--love strong enough to die for another.” 

Sitting down again, the Headmaster seemed to calm a little, thinking through his words before continuing. “Unless I am mistaken...Draco, were you the first person--thus far, the only one--to be given the Dark Mark, since his return from his non-death?” When Draco nodded mutely, Dumbledore hummed. “I’m nearly certain, then. You described to me Lord Voldemort’s tale of the night in the graveyard...he used blood magic, a spell that very specifically required Harry’s blood as his former conqueror, in order to restore him to a body.”

Draco nodded again, still not tracking.

“In a strange, impossible-to-predict, marvelous twist and turn of fate...the same sort of magic that Lily’s death imbued her son with, making him the Dark Lord’s true enemy...seems to have come to you, by way of Harry Potter’s death, when the Dark Lord then turned his curse upon you.” Dumbledore gave Draco a long, amazed look. “Completely different circumstances, every step of the way--and yet, an exact parallel, mirroring one another almost eerily. And like Harry, you now have qualities that you would never have possessed had Lord Voldemort done himself a favor, and left you well alone.”

It still felt very difficult for Draco to breathe. “Am I going to die facing him, then, like Harry did?”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened. “I should certainly hope not. Harry did not have to die. He was murdered by a sadistic being who not only had the inhumanity to use a child for one of the darkest, foulest sorts of magic possible--and before that, had more than willingly endeavored to murder that same child quite literally in his cradle--but who also took immense pleasure from taunting, and physically torturing the poor boy prior to killing him. He had used Harry’s blood; there was no necessity for Voldemort to toy with him as you reported him boasting of.”

Draco nodded, nausea welling up fast enough that he had to duck his head, struggling through it momentarily. When he looked up again, Dumbledore was offering him a goblet of cool water, which he accepted gratefully.

“But...okay, so, then...what does this...connection, thing, mean for me?” he asked finally, nearly a whisper. “I remember--Harry always had pain in his scar, and sometimes he knew things that he shouldn’t have possibly been able to know...Hermione told me that he had insights into the Dark Lord’s emotions?”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Indeed, he did. Their link was truly just like the one I’ve described to you; a channel which Voldemort himself believes to either benefit only him, or to be insignificant...but instead, being thus linked to Harry--and now, by your Mark, to you--Voldemort gains absolutely nothing. While you...you have access to parts of him that he would never have willingly shared, had he known.”

Draco thought of the rough sounds of Marvolo and Marfin speaking to one another; he now understood how what he had assumed was a thick country accent was the overlay of hissing above words that he’d heard as if they were in English. 

He frowned, looking up at Dumbledore swiftly. “Sir--did you have suspicions about this already? Was this--this theory, the connection, was that a factor in deciding that I was the one who should see these memories, rather than Hermione?”

The Headmaster smiled, pleased, and returned to his chair. “Indeed. Though of course I could have been proven wrong, and the Mark could have shown itself to only be a scar that you must, regretfully, bear. But I saw your comprehension of the Gaunts’ speech, and I knew...I knew that if not fully correct, then I was at least on the right track.”

Above the fireplace, the clock quietly chimed the late hour, and Dumbledore sighed. “Now, I’ve kept you far too late; I am sure that Miss Parkinson and Mr. Nott are struggling to remain awake for your return. Get some rest, Draco. We will continue our venture next week.”

Draco nodded, suddenly feeling so exhausted that he could have slept right there in the armchair. Suppressing a yawn, he stood and turned towards the door, and was almost at the door when he saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle-legged tables that supported so many frail-looking silver instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a large, cracked, black stone. 

“Sir,” Draco said slowly, staring at it. “That ring —” 

“Yes?” Dumbledore said, peering at Draco over the top of his glasses.

“Isn’t it... sir, isn’t it the same ring that Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?” 

Dumbledore bowed his head. “The very same.” 

“But how come—? Have you always had it?” 

“No, I acquired it very recently,” Dumbledore replied. “A mere few days before the beginning of term, in fact.” 

“That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?” 

“Around that time, yes, Draco.” 

Draco hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling, clearly following his train of thought, but offering nothing. “Sir, how exactly—?” 

“Too late tonight, dear boy! You shall hear the story another time. Good night.” 

“Good night, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We promised less canon-heavy, but you can't entirely escape canon lol. Especially with the memory lessons with Dumbledore.


	17. Fate Make Us Suffer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Draco felt guilty for withholding anything from them--but he did not yet explain all that Dumbledore had theorized and concluded regarding how the Dark Mark had changed Draco, inside and out."

“Hagrid’s been avoiding us,” Hermione reported during a late-night meeting in the Prefect’s bathroom a few weeks into the term. “I think he’s upset that none of us have signed up to continue his Care of Magical Creatures lessons.”

There was a brief pause, with Draco and Ron glancing at each other. As much as they had clashed during their third and fourth years about Hagrid and his teaching habits, they had, of course, come to the agreement that Hagrid, as much as he loved the subject, was just not the best teacher there was for it.

Hermione sighed. “Oh come now, let’s not all jump up at once…”

“I think we all knew this was going to happen,” Ron said, looking a bit chagrined to be admitting it out loud. “I mean…Who in their right mind would want to continue the class if they didn’t have to, you know?

“The only subject I kept outside of the ones I needed for the Healer’s program was Ancient Runes,” Draco agreed. “I can’t keep up with that kind of coursework, especially for a subject that I don’t even need to work in St. Mungo’s.”

“No, I...I know,” Hermione said dejectedly. “But I hate hurting him like this…Ron, and I, and Harry, we were his favorite students--”

Draco snorted slightly. “Well, that much was obvious.”

She rolled her eyes. “Point is, he’s practically family, and none of us have tried to continue, and now he’s upset about it. The least we could do is go down eventually and try to speak to him.” She looked to Ron pointedly, who cringed a bit but nodded in understanding, before her eyes turned to Draco, fixing him with that blazing look that he had seen right before she had punched him in the face third year. “All three of us.”

He could come up with any sort of excuse that could have gotten him out of it. After all, he and Hagrid had only come to a truce last year, when Hagrid had been made aware that Draco was a spy for Dumbledore. But when faced with Hermione’s gaze, and Ron’s slightly pleading look over her shoulder, Draco just frowned a little, then sighed. “Fine, fine…I have a free period right after lunch on Friday, I can sneak down and meet you there.”

***

That Friday, as promised, after lunch Draco left Pansy and Theo to be his distraction as he wandered out of the castle, waiting in an area where he was unlikely to be seen, until Ron and Hermione came out a few minutes later to meet him. Together, the trio headed down the winding path that led to Hagrid’s hut, where smoke was rising from the crooked little chimney, suggesting that the half-giant was still within and cooking something. Already Draco wondered if Hagrid would try to offer them any of his cakes, and his teeth felt oddly sensitive.

Reaching the pen, however, Draco balked at the sight of a very large, very familiar feathered beast. “Is that…?”

The great grey hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in front of Hagrid’s hut, well within the newly budding pumpkin patches. He turned his head, one large orange eye staring at the trio with unblinking intensity, and Draco’s heart nearly jumped right into his throat. “What is _that_ doing here?”

“He was on the run with Sirius,” Ron explained. “That’s how he escaped, Harry and Hermione used a Time Turner at the end of our third year to save Buckbeak and Sirius.”

“Ah,” Draco said, his voice a bit squeaky. “That explains so much. I’m not getting near it.”

“Come now, Draco, don’t be frightened.” Hermione smirked a little, though she too seemed to keep her distance for a moment. “The whole reason Buckbeak attacked you in the first place was because you insulted him when Hagrid said not to. He was very clear about that.”

“Merlin, will I have no bloody peace about that? I’ve learned my lesson, Granger, no insulting giant bloody chickens lest I want my face to match the scar on my arm.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped towards the hippogriff, who eyed her almost suspiciously. After giving a low bow once they established eye contact, Buckbeak sank into a bow too, allowing Hermione to walk forward with confidence to gently pat the monster among his neck feathers. “You remember Draco, don’t you?” she asked, almost crooning at the wild beast, as Ron bowed next to receive Buckbeak’s approval. “I promise, he’s not the rude pompous little brat who tried to get you killed anymore.”

Draco’s cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. “I…That actually wasn’t my idea…”

“Oh?”

“I mean…Father was so angry that Hagrid got the job, and I was...embarrassed, I guess, for my stupid mistake that first class, he managed to get me into the idea of having Buckbeak go through trial to try and scare Hagrid into quitting the job.” Draco shrugged slightly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, shame coiling low in his belly at the memory. “I didn’t really think he was going to try and get Buckbeak executed, I just thought he was going to wait until the very last second. But by the time I realized the truth…”

Hermione’s face softened a little, and she returned to his side, taking his hand and causing his entire arm to go into pins and needles. With a little prodding, and plenty of heel digging into the dirt, she managed to push Draco closer to Buckbeak, who glared down at him as if offended that the blonde would dare to approach now.

“Just bow,” Hermione said gently, “and keep eye contact.”

Thinking that he had finally lost his damned mind thanks to Hermione bloody Granger, Draco shakily, slowly lowered himself into a bow, waiting with bated breath for what felt like hours, but in reality was only about thirty seconds, before Buckbeak bowed back.

“There ya go, Ferret Boy,” Ron said, grinning as Draco shot him a fast glare. “Now come on, properly apologize for being a git, I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”

“How about you don’t antagonize me, Weasel-Bee, and you’ll get to keep your limbs.” Buckbeak clicked his beak sharply as if reprimanding Draco for his tone, and Draco stepped away from him quickly. “Okay, okay--I’m sorry.” He hesitantly met the creature’s odd orange eyes again, and this time he noticed that Buckbeak didn’t seem to be looking at him like he was dinner. “...I am sorry, for...for before.”

It took as long as it had for the hippogriff to bow back to him; but then he dipped his head, as if actually acknowledging the apology, and turned to resume rooting at the contents of the nearby trough.

“Oy!” came a loud voice. Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, was at his heels; Fang gave a booming bark and bounded forward. “Git away from him! He’ll have yer fingers—oh. It’s yeh lot.” 

Fang was jumping up at Hermione and Ron, attempting to lick their ears, while Draco kept his hands out to prevent the dog giving him the same overly-affectionate treatment. Hagrid stood and looked at them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

“Oh, dear,” Hermione murmured. “Alright, come on, then--we’ve got to fix this--”

She strode to the door, lifting her fist and pounding on the wood. “Hagrid! Let us in, we need to talk to you!” There was no sound from within, and she frowned, looking at the two boys for help.

Ron shrugged, giving her a smirk. “Could just force it open. You seem to be on a roll, ‘Mione, with all this confidence.”

Before she could reply to that, the door yanked back open, and Hagrid glared down at them all before looking at Draco specifically, which startled the blonde. “Dunno what yeh think yeh’ll accomplish--but I do know that _yeh_ specifically can’t be seen out an’ about with these two--so get inside, the three of yeh, disrespectful an’ reckless little...”

He stepped back, still muttering what sounded like a few profanities at their expense, and the three teenagers scrambled inside. Draco had to admit, Hagrid had a point--but he’d been damned cautious about not being seen, and they had been out of sight of the castle until Hagrid let them inside.

“Well?” Hagrid asked grumpily, going to put away his potatoes. “What’s this about, then? Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I’m lonely or summat?”

“We’ve missed you!” Hermione protested, looking close enough to tears that Draco felt momentarily as if he needed to comfort her more than the angry groundskeeper. 

“Missed me, have yeh?” Hagrid snorted. “Yeah. Righ’.” He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of mahogany-brown tea in front of them and a plate of his rock cakes. 

“Hagrid,” Hermione said timidly, when he joined them at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a brutality that suggested that each tuber had done him a great personal wrong. “We really wanted to carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know.” Hagrid gave another great snort, not looking at her. “We did!” Hermione insisted. “But none of us could fit it into our schedules!” 

Realizing now that being brown-nosing wasn’t going to get them anywhere, Draco held a hand up to his shoulder. “I didn’t.”

Ron and Hermione both shot him a fast look, but Hagrid squinted at him, momentarily startled, and then a bit suspicious. “Eh?”

“I’m going to be completely honest with you Hagrid,” Draco said, “the only reason I signed up for the class to begin with was because Theo begged me to. I didn’t really enjoy it, and quite frankly, it would not help me with my plans on being a Healer at St. Mungo’s. Dropping the class altogether seemed like a logical conclusion. While I am sorry that I hurt your feelings indirectly, I’m not sorry to not be in the class anymore.”

There was a long pause, while Ron and Hermione looked petrified for a moment, and Hagrid just stared at Draco like he had never seen the blonde before in his life. Then, finally, his beard twitched. “At least one of yeh is bein’ honest.”

There was a funny squelching sound, and they all looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek, and Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table away from the large barrel standing in the corner that they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing. “What are they, Hagrid?” Draco asked, trying to sound interested rather than revolted, but putting down his rock cake all the same as his stomach twisted from watching them move. 

“Jus’ giant grubs,” Hagrid replied, resuming his potato-peeling. 

“And they grow into...?” Ron asked, looking apprehensive. 

“They won’ grow inter nuthin’,” Hagrid said. “I got ‘em ter feed ter Aragog.” And then without warning, he burst into tears. 

“Hagrid!” Hermione cried out, leaping up and hurrying around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. “What is it?” 

“It’s...him...” Hagrid gulped, his beetle-black eyes streaming as he mopped his face with his apron. “It’s...Aragog...I think he’s dyin’...He got ill over the summer an’ he’s not gettin’ better...I don’ know what I’ll do if he...if he...We’ve bin tergether so long...” 

Hermione patted Hagrid’s shoulder, looking at a complete loss for anything to say. Draco glanced at Ron questioningly, mouthing, _Aragog?_ Ron looked torn between pity for Hagrid, and not minding this news one bit before he mouthed back, _Acromantula_.

Draco shuddered, understanding now the look on Hermione’s face as she attempted to soothe the older man; if there were acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest--and why the bloody hell wouldn’t there be--then of fucking course Hagrid had been dear friends with one of them. Draco had listened to the other two tell him about Hagrid presenting a vicious baby dragon with a teddy bear, and he himself had seen Hagrid croon over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, and attempt to reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother.

“Is there—is there anything we can do for you?” Hermione asked, ignoring Ron’s frantic grimaces and head-shakings. 

“I don’ think there is, Hermione,” Hagrid choked out, attempting to stem the flood of his tears. “See, the rest o’ the tribe...Aragog’s family...they’re gettin’ a bit funny now he’s ill...bit restive...” 

“Yeah, I think I saw a bit of that side of them,” Ron muttered in an undertone. Draco made a mental note to ask the ginger about that, because clearly there was a story behind his knowing who Aragog was in the first place.

“...I don’ reckon it’d be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo’,” Hagrid finished, blowing his nose hard on his apron and looking up. “But thanks fer offerin’, Hermione...It means a lot.” 

After that exchange, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for although neither Draco nor Ron had shown any inclination to support Hermione in going to feed giant grubs to a murderous, gargantuan spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for granted that they would have liked to have done and became his usual self once more. 

“Ar, I always knew yeh’d find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables,” he assured them gruffly, pouring them more tea. “Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners—” 

“We couldn’t have done,” Hermione told him. “We smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners when we were there last summer...it was an accident, we were just rushing through there, but it happened.” Draco hadn’t heard that part; he wondered what the sheer cost of the damage was for the Ministry, following the Death Eaters’ bold, stupid attempt to corner Dumbledore within the maze of their halls.

“Ar, well then,” Hagrid said. “There’s no way yeh could’ve done it...I’m sorry I’ve bin—yeh know—I’ve jus’ bin worried about Aragog...an’ I did wonder whether, if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin’ yeh—” 

That had both Ron and Hermione categorically and untruthfully asserting to him that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful. Draco did not participate in that round of groveling, but he didn’t stop them, finding it rather endearing how determined the two Gryffindors were to keep up their friend’s spirits.

“I’m starving,” Draco declared, once Hagrid had closed his door behind them, and they were hurrying through the dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the rock cake after an ominous cracking noise from one of his back teeth. 

Rounding the greenhouses, they collided with a fourth body, and Draco had a moment’s terror over the wrong person seeing him walking in such clear camaraderie with Ron and Hermione--but then the new person spoke, and he relaxed, knowing that even if their new Potions professor was not in the Order...well, he was either too diplomatic, or too naive to care which members of which Houses he ever saw spending time together.

“Draco, m’boy, just the man I was hoping to see at some point this evening!” he boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly. “I wanted to invite you to a get-together that I’m arranging; I’ll be having a little party in a week or so’s time. Just a few rising stars, I’ve got McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin—I don’t know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries—and, of course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor me by coming too, I would very much enjoy getting better-acquainted.” 

Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him. Draco was unsure for a long moment of exactly how to respond; did he count as “a rising star,” in the way that Slughorn seemed to mean from what he was saying?

Hermione recovered first, and though she looked half-amused and half-embarrassed, her tone was warm. “That’s incredibly generous of you, Professor! I’m sure that Draco and I would both be delighted--if you can just send us notes to confirm the date--”

“Certainly, certainly, Miss Granger,” Slughorn confirmed, looking delighted when Draco managed a nod as well. “I’m aiming for a Friday or Saturday evening, to ensure I don’t disrupt anyone’s homework or lose any of you fine young folk to what-have-you--Quidditch practices, dates, all that _young_ activity.” He beamed at them, starting to continue on his way. “Look for my owl!”

Once he was out of hearing, Hermione deflated slightly, looking bemused. “Well, that will be...interesting,” she said, shaking her head. “You can’t back out on me, either,” she added, poking Draco in the chest and making him grunt in protest. “You _have_ to come, Merlin knows I don’t want to be alone at some stuff networking party with someone like _McGlaggen_.”

“I doubt you’d be alone even if he didn’t go, Ginny’ll probably be invited,” Ron grumbled, who did not seem to have taken kindly to being ignored by Slughorn. “He had a similar little ‘ _get together_ ’ on the train coming to Hogwarts--he spotted her using a Bat Bogey Hex on someone and said it was excellent Charms work and had her join the party. She said it was just a few snooty older kids then.”

“Grand,” Draco muttered. “Well, you told him that we’re going, so I guess we’re going. Who knows, maybe it won’t be awful.”

* * *

There was one final Hogsmeade weekend scheduled before the approaching Christmas holidays, and despite the rather brutal winter weather, the majority of students opted to attend.

Draco hadn’t been inclined, himself, but a note from Hermione suggesting that they meet at the Three Broomsticks had him changing his mind, pointedly ignoring Pansy’s knowing smirk when Draco turned up to join them. The walk from the castle to the village was not enjoyable. Draco had his scarf wrapped fully over his lower face with only his eyes exposed; on either side of him, Theo and Pansy were similarly bundled up to the point of being unrecognizable, and they had to walk bent double against the bitter wind. 

When they finally reached Hogsmeade, there was a general air of unease hanging over the place, and Draco saw with a twinge that Zonko’s Joke Shop had been boarded up. 

Whether the shopkeeper was safe and had simply decided that things were getting too risky to be open, there was no way to know; the alternative had too many variables to guess at. Draco couldn’t imagine why a joke shop owner would be taken by Death Eaters, but he was also more than aware of his own limitations when it came to comprehending Lord Voldemort’s movements.

Theo pointed a thickly gloved hand toward Honeydukes, which they saw with immense relief was still open. The three of them staggered into the brightly-lit, crowded shop, finding a corner and huddling together until they thawed out some. “I’m good with this,” Theo shivered as they drank in the warm, toffee-scented air. “Let’s stay here all afternoon.” 

Draco smiled faintly. “You two ought to--I’ve got to get to the Broomsticks. Swing by there before you head back to school and see if we can’t all walk back together, eh?” At their nods, Draco drew his winter coat more snugly around himself, then braced himself for the brief, freezing walk from Honeydukes to Madam Rosmerta’s pub, from which warm firelight and laughter were spilling out to welcome cold passersby.

As planned, Draco found a small table tucked into a corner of the main room right behind the staircase that led up to the next level of the pub. He ordered himself a warm butterbeer and put his feet up on the second chair to deflect would-be conversationalists, then pulled out the novel that he had brought along, holding it in front of him as if to read.

He saw when Ron and Hermione arrived, stamping snow from their boots and shivering until they could get their own drinks. Neither looked his way, but through the staircase’s railing, he could see them moving to the mirroring table to his own, also partially tucked against the stairs.

After a few moments, a note fluttered over to land on the table in front of him, and Draco smiled to himself as he opened it behind the cover of his book. _I imagine it’s too much to write out here, but we want to hear about the memories that you said Dumbledore showed you!_

It took a little maneuvering, but Draco was able to write replies and trade the parchment back and forth, charming the page blank again between each note. He told them about Dumbledore wanting him to see the full history of Voldemort’s life, and how he had seen the poor woman who became his mother.

Draco felt guilty for withholding anything from them--but he did not yet explain all that Dumbledore had theorized and concluded regarding how the Dark Mark had changed Draco, inside and out. 

Revealing that he could now speak Parseltongue--which still had Draco’s own mind absolutely reeling--and that it was possible that he had taken up Harry Potter’s mantle a little more literally than he had intended...well, that was a hefty conversation. One that Draco felt would be better handled face-to-face and out loud, rather than by passing notes like school children gossiping during class.

Feeling eyes on him, Draco raised his eyes above the top of his book, and paused. Crabbe and Goyle had entered the pub, shaking off the snow and ice, and had spotted him immediately. Draco wasn’t sure if he ought to appear willing to sit with them, or not; but the choice did not present itself. Crabbe gave him a long, narrowed-eyed look, and then the pair shuffled over to sit at the bar with their backs to the main room.

Between notes from Hermione, Draco occasionally glanced back at the bar, keeping track of whether or not his Housemates ever looked over at him again. He had a moment’s alarm when he looked over to find that Goyle was now by himself; Draco swung his gaze around the pub, but to his relief, Crabbe was emerging from the corner where the bathrooms were located. 

He appeared to only then spot Ron and Hermione, and gave the Gryffindors a look of unveiled loathing, but he did not approach them or seem interested in their proximity to where Draco was sitting.

Letting Crabbe leave his thoughts, Draco registered that Hermione was laughing at something as Ron spluttered in seeming protest. The sound of her amusement made Draco smile instinctively, glancing through the railings to watch her face light up. 

She caught his eye and he raised a brow in question; smirking, Hermione wrote another note, and Draco caught it as he heard Ron groaning over her sharing whatever it was that she was teasing the redhead for. _Ron’s got a girlfriend_ , her tidy handwriting read. _After Gryffindor won its last match, Lavender Brown just threw herself at him and they started snogging. Now he can’t walk ten feet without her either hanging from his neck or attached to him by the lips_ . _It’s ridiculous, and hilarious._

Draco snorted, clearing the words and jotting down, _That is just_ **_odd_ ** _. Wouldn’t’ve have pegged her for his type, but alright then...congratulations, I suppose._

After they read his words, Ron was red-faced and began pointedly ignoring them both as he drank his butterbeer in what he appeared to think was a dignified manner, while Hermione just continued giggling at his expense. 

Across the pub, Draco noticed that Ginny was there was well, curled in a booth with Dean Thomas of all people. Seeing them draw together for a kiss that was clearly not their first, Draco peered over at Ron for his reaction, but the other boy appeared too busy being embarrassed to register that his little sister was engaging in a public display of affection.

Draco had a flashing thought of what it would be like to feel carefree enough for that. If the...whatever it was...between him and Hermione ever became a real, concrete thing. He imagined sitting in a cozy little pub or restaurant--no, a bookshop or library, that suited her better--holding her hand and getting to see her smile at him openly.

Such a thing was a childish fantasy, but Draco couldn’t help the pang of longing that he felt, all the same.

Another note landed in his hand. _I’m really worried about Christmas. Do you_ **_have_ ** _to go home? Are you sure you can’t just claim that you must study for our N.E.W.T.s, or something like last year?_

Draco sighed softly, his reply ready. _I can’t. If I don’t go back this year, the suspicion would just be too high. Given...things, I need to appear to be more duty-bound there, to them, than I am to school._ He could imagine all too well how Lucius would take it if Draco didn’t seem eager to be in the Dark Lord’s presence, working diligently to fulfill the mission that he had been given. 

Voldemort expected the teenager to be actively preparing for a siege against Hogwarts. Draco was supposed to be proud and exhilarated that it had been tasked to him to bring about Albus Dumbledore’s demise.

 _I can’t stand it_ . Draco could hear Hermione’s voice as he read her words, and he sighed at the concern that he could _feel_ radiating from her. _Just...tell me you’re going to be vigilant. Please_.

Draco hesitated, feeling the weight of knowing how dangerous it would be to promise something that he couldn’t strictly deliver on. He could watch his back every step, mind his words, toe the line--and yet one mistake, even if it wasn’t his own, could result in his exposure as a spy, and death.

But he could not bear to make Hermione worry for him. _I promise_ , he wrote back. _Pansy will send you reassurances about my status. But you_ **_cannot_ ** _write back to me at the Manor_. Through the staircase, Draco heard her make a noise of frustration, but he knew that she was well-aware that he was right. It hurt, being unable to stay directly in touch, but it had to be so.

A cold blast of air accompanied Theo and Pansy entering the Three Broomsticks, and Draco smiled, putting away his book. 

He rose to meet them, catching himself from looking over at Ron and Hermione in farewell as he realized that once more, Crabbe was eyeing him. Draco offered him a tentative nod and smile--they were meant to be Housemates and life-long friends, after all, and now they were both a part of the larger, darker events that were happening--but Crabbe merely looked away again, giving no response at all.

As they passed the bar for the door, the sound of glass shattering drew Draco’s attention, and he watched Madam Rosmerta hurry to repair the broken cup before refocusing on Hermione in order to close their tab. There was something frazzled and odd about the pub keeper’s behavior, but as Draco watched, she simply returned to work. Pansy called for him to hurry his arse up, and Draco stepped back out into the darkening cold. Ron and Hermione left behind them, keeping several paces between as the five of them began walking back towards Hogwarts.

They were a short ways out of the village itself along the path before Draco became aware of raised voices ahead of them. Squinting through the swirling snow, he spotted Katie Bell and another Gryffindor girl stopped in the lane. They appeared to be arguing, the wind carrying their voices back towards him. “It’s nothing to do with you, Leanne!” Draco heard Katie snap. 

They rounded a corner in the lane, the sleet now coming down thick and fast. Just as he raised a gloved hand to shield his eyes for better vision, Leanne made to grab hold of the package that Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back and the package fell to the ground. 

At once, Katie rose into the air, gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. Yet there was something wrong, something eerie...Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression. All of them--Draco, Theo, and Pansy, Leanne, and Ron and Hermione--halted in their tracks, watching warily. 

Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open, but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie’s ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. Draco, Theo, and Ron rushed forward to help, but even as they grabbed Katie’s legs, she fell on top of them; Theo and Ron managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could hardly hold her. Instead they lowered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to recognize any of them. 

Hermione looked around wildly; the landscape seemed deserted. “Stay with her!” she shouted at the others over the mounting wind. “I’ll find help!” She had barely begun to sprint further up the lane when an enormous shadow appeared in the swirling snow, and Hermione skidded to a stop at once. 

“Hagrid!” Draco heard her cry out, “Hagrid, someone’s hurt back there, or cursed, or something—it’s Katie Bell—come on, this way--” 

She led him back along the lane until they reached the group huddled around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; Ron, Pansy, and Leanne were all trying to quiet her. 

“Get back!” Hagrid shouted, shooing them off of her. “Lemme see her!” He stared down at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie’s piercing screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind. 

Hermione hurried over to Katie’s still-crying friend and put an arm around her. “It’s Leanne, isn’t it?” she asked gently, and the girl nodded, continuing to hiccup. “Did it just happen all of a sudden, or—?” 

“It was when that package tore,” Leanne sobbed, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter that stood out vibrantly against the snowy ground. Ron bent down, his hand out-stretched towards it, but Draco lunged forward and seized his arm, stopping him.

“Don’t touch it!” Draco warned him, crouching down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, barely poking out of the paper. Draco’s stomach did a somersault and then seemed to do something between a backflip and a sudden drop; he recognized the piece instantly. 

It had been on display in Borgin & Burke’s for as long as he could recall, hanging in a display case right by the counter. It had been there every time that Draco had visited the grim little shop with his father, and he could vividly remember it still shimmering in its glass case when he had gone in about the Vanishing Cabinet over the summer. The label on the case said that it was cursed, and as a child, Draco had been fascinated by it, wondering what it would do to someone.

Now, it seemed, he had found out.

He looked back at Leanne, who was still shaking uncontrollably, leaning on Hermione to remain standing. “How did Katie come by this?” 

“Well, that’s why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it...Oh no, oh no, I bet she’d been Imperiused and I didn’t realize!” Leanne shook with renewed sobs.

Draco went still, his mind racing, a puzzle piece clicking into place. The dazed look on Madam Rosmerta’s face, her brief lack of coordination...she, too, had been Imperiused. How he had missed that looking right at her--but then, who? 

Had they cursed the older witch in order to make her give Katie the necklace? Had they first tried to give it to Rosmerta, and then changed targets?

Hermione patted her shoulder gently. “She didn’t say who’d given it to her, Leanne?” she asked gently, and Draco refocused to hear the other Gryffindor’s reply.

“No...she wouldn’t tell me...and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn’t listen and...and then I tried to grab it from her...and—and—” Leanne let out a wail of despair. 

“We’d better get up to the school,” Hermione said to the others, her arm still around Leanne. “We’ll be able to find out how she is. Come on...” 

Draco hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron’s gasp, carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up. “We’ll need to get this to Madam Pomfrey so she knows what exactly got Katie,” he said. 

They had just entered the grounds when Professor McGonagall appeared, hurrying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet the little group. “Hagrid says you six saw what happened to Katie Bell—upstairs to my office at once, please!” She ushered them inside, then paused as Draco brought up the rear. “What’s that you’re holding, Malfoy?” 

“It’s the thing she touched,” Draco answered, carefully maneuvering his hands to show her the necklace without letting it come anywhere near his skin, even through his gloves. Katie had been wearing gloves, as well. 

“Good lord,” Professor McGonagall muttered, looking alarmed as she gingerly took the scarf-wrapped necklace from him. “No, no, Filch, they’re with me!” she added hastily, as Filch came shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. “Take this necklace to Professor Snape at once, Filch--but be sure not to touch it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!” 

Draco and the others followed Professor McGonagall upstairs and into her office. The sleet-spattered windows were rattling in their frames, and the room was chilly despite the fire crackling in the grate. Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept around her desk to face them all, her eyes on the still sobbing Leanne. 

“Well?” she said sharply. “What happened?” 

Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted to control her crying, Leanne told Professor McGonagall how Katie had gone to the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks and returned holding the unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little odd, and how they had argued about the advisability of agreeing to deliver unknown objects, the argument culminating in the tussle over the parcel, which tore open. At this point, Leanne was so overcome, there was no getting another word out of her. 

“All right,” Professor McGonagall said at last, not unkindly, “go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for the shock.” As Leanne shuffled out of the study unsteadily, McGonagall watched her go, then looked at the remaining students before her. She appeared to hesitate, her eyes darting over the Slytherins, and Draco smiled faintly.

“It’s alright, Professor,” he told her. “Theo and Pansy are with us, they’re in the DA, too.”

McGonagall sighed. “Yes, I presumed as much. That night when that deplorable woman cornered you all--I realized later that Miss Parkinson must have aided you in appearing to help in their capture rather than being among them. Well, then...” She frowned. “Were you five meeting in the village? That would have been--”

“Too risky, we know,” Hermione said tiredly. Now that the adrenaline of the whole event was passing, she appeared to be feeling exhausted. “We weren’t, not exactly--we weren’t sitting together or anything, I mean--and we just happened to all be heading back when we caught up with Katie and Leanne. Even if someone unsafe saw us all out there, it would just appear that we’d all just been reacting to the crisis...”

Draco made a slight face, suddenly thinking of Crabbe. “Though for some people, even that would seem suspect. I’ve never been known to be particularly selfless, after all.”

Professor McGonagall frowned, but finally she waved her hand. “Well, there’s no changing it now--and your actions were invaluable. It sounds as if you lot being there prevented Leanne from being hurt as well, or Katie being worse off. For now, go back to your dorms--unless you feel that you need something for shock as well, in which case, of course, go see Madam Pomfrey.”

Leaving her office, the five of them parted ways at once; Ron and Hermione headed towards Gryffindor Tower, and the Slytherins descended through the castle to return to the dungeons. Draco left his friends with a promise to come and catch them up, and then made his way to his godfather’s rooms and knocked. When Severus bid him enter, Draco stepped inside.

“McGonagall sent Filch to you with the cursed necklace--you treated her?” he asked without preamble, and Severus merely nodded. “What the hell happened today, Severus?”

The older wizard shook his head, looking perturbed. “I do not know. I tended to her as best I could, and then arranged for a quick transfer to St. Mungo’s. They will be much better-able to stabilize her than I could.” He hesitated, then went on. “She did awaken, before the Healers came for her. She said that she has no memory of being given the necklace. Only that she had been instructed to deliver it.”

Draco stared back at him, waiting, and Severus finally grimaced. “She was told to bring it directly to Professor Dumbledore.”

A cold chill went through Draco’s entire body. He had had no involvement in this incident; he hadn’t known that the necklace had ever left Borgin & Burke’s, and he hadn’t heard anything from home regarding other efforts against the Headmaster besides his own, with the Vanishing Cabinet. 

Had this been Voldemort--did he have more than one student-agent at Hogwarts? Perhaps Draco was taking too long and the Dark Lord had ordered someone else to take their own stab at the task? Or was this someone acting independently, a threat to Draco and his friends that had nothing to do with the Dark Lord? 

The sudden terror that he was slipping up, that there were factors that neither he nor Severus had control over, had Draco feeling sick to his core as he made his way back to rejoin Pansy and Theo. He was going to have to be even more careful, even if it meant keeping more distance between himself and the Gryffindors.

* * *

Promptly at 8’o’clock that Saturday evening, Draco knocked on the Headmaster’s study door, opening it when the welcome was called out. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, looking unusually tired tonight; his hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled when he gestured to Draco to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling. 

“You have had a busy time while I have been away,” Dumbledore said. “I believe you witnessed Katie’s accident.” 

“Yes, sir. How is she?” 

“Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin; there was a tiny hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse.” 

“Where were you, sir?” Draco asked, then winced at how impertinent the inquiry sounded. “Sorry, I just meant--we were seen by Professor McGonagall, she didn’t mention you being with Katie, or--”

“Yes, unfortunately, I was away from the school at the time,” the Headmaster replied, looking troubled. “I am deeply grateful that I have such an excellent Deputy Headmistress, for she handled the situation exactly as I would have. Anyway,” Dumbledore went on, “the St. Mungo’s staff are sending me hourly reports, and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery in time.” 

Removing a corked vial of glowing white mist from his robe pocket, Dumbledore stood, coming around his desk to pause in front of the Pensieve. “Now then, Draco, I believe it is time that we dove--rather literally--into our lesson.” 

Draco watched as Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered hands. “You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort’s beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort.” 

“How do you know she was in London, sir?” 

“Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke,” Dumbledore replied, “who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing.” He swilled the contents of the Pensieve, like a prospector sifting for gold. 

Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes. “Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along...Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin’s. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, ‘Oh, this was Merlin’s, this was, his favorite teapot,’ but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn’t seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!” 

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come. 

“He only gave her ten Galleons?” Draco asked indignantly. “Knowing that it was priceless, and that she was struggling and pregnant?”

“Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,” Dumbledore confirmed. “So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo’s treasured family heirlooms.” 

“But she could do magic!” Draco said, surprised and confused. “She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn’t she have?” 

“Ah,” Dumbledore said musingly, “perhaps she could. But it is my belief—I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right—that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.” 

“She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?” Draco said, astonished. He had been assuming that he was going to learn of her death being the result of something that was unpreventable, but to know that Merope Gaunt had simply allowed herself to fade away...abandoning her newborn…

He thought of Narcissa, who had struggled for years to conceive, so desperate she was to have a child, both for her own desires, and for the pressure of their families on her shoulders. Draco had been her only one, a firstborn--and only--son, and how much she adored him, pampered him, loved him. He could scarcely fathom a woman--any woman--who could have a child and feel so little love for them that they would willingly waste away or abandon the child altogether.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?” he asked, his tone mild.

“No,” Draco replied, perhaps a little quickly, “but she had a choice, didn’t she—not every mother does, and she just--” 

Dumbledore cut him off, his tone gentle. “Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her...but do not judge her too harshly, Draco. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had any real courage--unlike some of the mothers who I imagine you are thinking of, in your indignation. And now, if you will stand with me...” 

“Where are we going?” Draco asked, rising to join the Headmaster in front of the desk. 

“This time,” Dumbledore informed him, “we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Draco...”

Bending over the Pensieve, Draco’s face broke the cool surface of the memory--and then he was falling through darkness again...Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street. 

“There I am,” Dumbledore said brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart. This younger Albus Dumbledore’s long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing. 

“Nice suit, sir,” Draco said before he could stop himself, then sucked in breath to apologize; but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron. 

“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?” 

“Oh,” the bewildered-looking girl said, taking in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. “Um... just a mo’... _Mrs. Cole_!” she bellowed over her shoulder, causing Draco to jump slightly. He heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. “Come in, she’s on ‘er way...” 

Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Draco and the older Dumbledore followed. 

Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore. “... and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley’s oozing all over his sheets—chicken pox on top of everything else,” she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold. 

“Good afternoon,” Dumbledore said pleasantly, holding out his hand. Mrs. Cole simply gaped. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.” 

Mrs. Cole merely blinked. After a long moment, apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, “Oh yes. Well—well then—you’d better come into my room. Yes.” 

She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part-sitting room, part-office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously. 

“I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said Dumbledore. 

“Are you family?” Mrs. Cole asked. 

“No, I am a teacher,” Dumbledore replied. “I have come to offer Tom a place at my school.” 

“What school’s this, then?” She was a sharp-eyed woman, eyeing Dumbledore with more suspicion than trust just yet. Draco had to admire the Headmaster for remaining not only polite, but almost sounding friendly in the face of the matron’s terse attitude.

“It is called Hogwarts,” Dumbledore replied. 

“And how come you’re interested in Tom?” 

“We believe he has qualities we are looking for.” 

“You mean he’s won a scholarship? How can he have done? He’s never been entered for one.” 

“Well, his name has been down for our school since birth—” 

“Who registered him? His parents?” There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently attentive woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too; Draco saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole’s desktop. 

“Here,” Dumbledore said, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make everything clear.” 

Mrs. Cole’s eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment. “That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before. “Er—may I offer you a glass of gin?” she added, in an extra-refined voice.

“Thank you very much,” Dumbledore replied, beaming. It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn’t hesitate to press his advantage. 

“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?” 

“That’s right,” Mrs. Cole confirmed, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.” Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin. 

“Did she say anything before she died?” Dumbledore inquired. “Anything about the boy’s father, for instance?” 

“Now, as it happens, she did,” Mrs. Cole said, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word. Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.” 

Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she added, seemingly unconsciously, “He’s a funny boy.” 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said lightly. “I thought he might be.” 

“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was... odd.” 

“Odd in what way?” Dumbledore asked her gently. 

“Well, he—” But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass. “He’s definitely got a place at your school, you say?” 

“Definitely,” Dumbledore affirmed. 

“And nothing I say can change that?” 

“Nothing.” 

“You’ll be taking him away, whatever?” 

“Whatever,” Dumbledore repeated gravely. 

She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the other children.” 

“You mean that he is a bully?” Dumbledore asked. 

“I think he must be,” Mrs. Cole replied, frowning slightly, “but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents... Nasty things...” Dumbledore did not press her, though Draco could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still. “Billy Stubbs’s rabbit... well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?” 

“I shouldn’t think so, no,” Dumbledore agreed, quietly. 

“But I’m jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then—” Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time. “—on the summer outing—we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside—well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they’d gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they’d just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I’m sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things...” 

She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady. “I don’t think many people will be sorry to see the back of him.” 

“You understand, I’m sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?” Dumbledore clarified. “He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer.” 

“Oh, well, that’s better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker,” Mrs. Cole said with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Draco was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. “I suppose you’d like to see him?” 

“Very much so,” Dumbledore confirmed, rising as well. She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Draco saw, were all wearing the same kind of grayish, shapeless uniform. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up. 

“Here we are,” Mrs. Cole announced, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered. “Tom? You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you—well, I’ll let him do it.” 

Draco and the two Dumbledores, both older and younger entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. 

There was no trace of the Gaunts in young Tom Riddle’s face. Merope had gotten her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. 

There was a moment’s silence. “How do you do, Tom?” Dumbledore asked, walking forward and holding out his hand. The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor. “I am Professor Dumbledore.” 

“‘Professor’?” Riddle repeated. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?” He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left. 

“No, no,” Dumbledore assured him, smiling. 

“I don’t believe you,” Riddle said at once. “She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!” He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it was one Draco had heard many times before already, in the same hard harsh tone. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still. “Who are you?” 

“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would like to come.” 

Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious. 

“You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course—well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!” 

“I am not from the asylum,” Dumbledore reiterated patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you—” 

“I’d like to see them try,” Riddle sneered.

“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle’s last words, “is a school for people with special abilities—” 

“I’m not mad!” 

“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.” 

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore’s, as though trying to catch one of them lying. “Magic?” he repeated in a whisper. 

“That’s right,” Dumbledore said, not breaking eye contact with the boy. 

“It’s... it’s magic, what I can do?” 

“What is it that you can do?” 

“All sorts of things,” Riddle breathed out. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “I can make filings move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.” Just the way he said that last bit, with a little bit of a relished tone, made something in Draco’s stomach turn cold because, yes, he recognized that tone too. All too well. 

Riddle’s legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. “I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.” 

“Well, you were quite right,” Dumbledore replied, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.” 

Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: there was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial. “Are you a wizard too?” 

“Yes, I am,” Dumbledore said quietly. 

“Prove it,” Riddle threw back at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, “Tell the truth.” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—” 

“Of course I am!” 

“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’“ 

Riddle’s expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?” 

Draco was sure for a moment that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick. 

The wardrobe burst into flames. 

Riddle jumped to his feet; Draco could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged. 

Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. “Where can I get one of them?” 

“All in good time,” Dumbledore told him. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.” 

And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened. “Open the door,” Dumbledore instructed him softly. 

Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it. “Take it out,” Dumbledore continued, in that same soft tone. Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved. 

“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” Dumbledore asked him. 

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an expressionless voice. 

“Open it,” Dumbledore said. Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Draco, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets. “You will return them to their owners with your apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.” 

Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, “Yes, sir.” 

“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws.” 

“Yes, sir,” Riddle said again. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, “I haven’t got any money.” 

“That is easily remedied,” Dumbledore assured him, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but—” 

“Where do you buy spellbooks?” Riddle interrupted, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon with intense interest. 

“In Diagon Alley,” Dumbledore replied. “I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything—” 

“You’re coming with me?” Riddle asked, finally looking up again. 

“Certainly, if you—” 

“I don’t need you,” Riddle said shortly. “I’m used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?” he added, catching Dumbledore’s eye. 

Draco thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, “You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—” 

Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly, and Dumbledore paused, looking at him with courteous curiosity. “You dislike the name ‘Tom’?” 

“There are a lot of Toms,” Riddle muttered back. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, “Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Dumbledore replied, his voice exceedingly gentle. 

“My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,” Riddle went on, more to himself than Dumbledore. “It must’ve been him. So—when I’ve got all my stuff—when do I come to this Hogwarts?” 

“All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope,” Dumbledore said. “You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too.” 

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle abruptly added, “I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?” 

Draco could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress. If what Riddle said was true, it made him wonder when snakes would start seeking him out to whisper to when in need of conversation.

“It is unusual,” Dumbledore answered Riddle, after a moment’s hesitation, “but not unheard of.” His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle’s face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. 

Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door. “Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.” 

“I think that will do,” said the white-haired Dumbledore at Draco’s side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day office. 

“Sit down,” Dumbledore invited, landing beside Draco. 

Draco obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just seen. “He believed it much quicker than I would have expected him to—I mean, when you told him he was a wizard,” Draco remarked.

“Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was—to use his word—‘special,’” Dumbledore agreed. 

“Did you know—then?” Draco asked, meeting Dumbledore’s gaze intently. 

“Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?” Dumbledore clarified. “No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his. His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and—most interestingly and ominously of all—he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and had begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive... ‘I can make them hurt if I want to... ’” 

“And he was a Parselmouth,” Draco noted. “Which, if he was open about that fact when he got here, wouldn’t have done him any favors. Socially, I mean. Especially since he went into Slytherin.” He sighed, wondering if that was going to be a problem for him...but then again, Ron and Hermione had remained diligently at Harry Potter’s side, even when they’d learned that he shared the gift of Parseltongue. And they were still fiercely in Draco’s own corner despite the Dark Mark. Learning that his receiving the Mark had somehow resulted in Voldemort transferring his unlearnable second language couldn’t possibly be the straw that broke the camel’s back, not in their friendships.

“Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination. But alas; time is making fools of us again,” Dumbledore said, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. 

“Before we part this evening, however,” he added, “I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings. Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle’s reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, ‘Tom’?” Draco nodded. “There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of ‘Lord Voldemort’ behind which he has been hidden for so long.” 

Putting the Pensieve away, Dumbledore reclaimed his own seat again. “I trust, too, that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same, as we you well know. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded--.” Draco snorted in agreement, thinking of Bellatrix and her fevered affection for the Dark Lord, and her desperation for his attention at every possible turn. 

“Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one. And lastly—I hope that you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Draco—the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later. And now, it really is time for bed.” 

Draco got to his feet. His mind was already swirling with what they had just witnessed, thinking of the handsome little boy, struggling to connect it to the horrendously ugly man he had been forced to share a Manor with for two summers in a row. He thought of Bellatrix again, and her undying devotion to Voldemort--and then, unwittingly, he thought of his own father, and how proud he had been that summer after Harry and Cedric had been murdered, how proud he had been to have Voldemort in the Manor, like it was something worthwhile. And now Lucius was barely a husk of who he had been, after the disastrous mission at the Ministry.

How strange, he thought, that Tom Riddle had always been a cold, empty person who thought of no one but himself and his own goals. 

As he walked towards the door, Draco’s eyes fell upon the same little table upon which Marvolo Gaunt’s ring had rested last the time that he was in the Headmaster’s study; but the ring was no longer there. “Yes, Draco?” Dumbledore called, for Draco had come to a halt. 

“The ring’s gone,” Draco said, looking around at Dumbledore and offering him a very faint smile. “But I thought you might have the mouth organ or something.” 

Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Very astute, Draco, but the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ.” And on that enigmatic note he waved to Draco, who understood himself to be dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lessons with Dumbledore may be the only canon-heavy segments we can't really escape, I imagine...we edit them, naturally, since it's Draco, but all those details matter to the greater story. <3


	18. Losing Track and Losing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'No one is ever perfect, Draco, so none of the bad that you’ve endured or done changes the good that you do, and are, now. And I think you’re exactly as you should be.' She smiled faintly. 'Don’t go changing on me, please.'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing readers, seriously. Your comments are always so encouraging and welcome. We love you all.

A double period of Herbology was first thing the following morning, with both Slytherin and Gryffindor’s sixth years trudging into the greenhouses under an overcast sky. This year Professor Sprout was implementing term projects, which meant that the students had formed into three-person groups and committed to doing the assignment as a team. 

Ron and Hermione were already seated around their Snargaloff stump, and Neville joined them with a happy smile. Draco, Theo, and Pansy returned to theirs, which was comfortably close enough to the Gryffindor trio that they could have communicated if they needed to--but only with extreme caution, as Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise had claimed the stump beside them on the other side.

“So, Draco,” Blaise said, pulling on his protective gloves in order to begin extracting the pods. It seemed he’d been doing the majority of the task, while his teammates preferred holding the stump steady for him; Draco had a suspicion that Crabbe was vaguely afraid of the gnarled, intimidating-looking plant with its thorny vines and rather ugly large green pods, which pulsated a little creepily once they were excavated. “Lots of chatter about this dinner party that Slughorn is planning...are you going to attend?”

Draco shrugged, catching hold of one of the vines as it tried to bat Pansy away from the stump’s core. “Yes, I suppose so--I mean, I told him yes already, so I may as well. And he seems decent enough, if a bit...eccentric.”

Blaise smirked at that. “You mean how he tries to collect us ‘interesting’ people. Yes, rather eccentric. But you know, he did say we can bring a guest each. Theo, Pansy you two ought to come along as well.” He didn’t seem concerned for how his own two partners might take that; Draco glanced over under his lashes, but Crabbe and Goyle appeared wholly dismissive of the conversation.

“Sure, that sounds good,” Pansy said, grunting as she finally got the pod out, and set it aside on a tray to drip dry. “I’ve heard that he springs for pricey refreshments when he throws parties, so it’ll be worth it for some fancy food, even if it’s stuffy otherwise.”

Theo nodded, taking on the next pod for her as Pansy worked to scrub some of the pod’s clinging juice from her dragon-hide gardening gloves. “Yeah, I’m in.” He traded a smile with Draco, his mouth quirking up in a half-smirk, and Draco knew that his friend was thinking it’d be better for them all to be there. Blaise was the only one on the guest list, as far as they were aware, who couldn’t find out about their friendship with the Gryffindors. If all three of them were in attendance, they’d be better able to run interference on him ever catching on.

Behind him, Draco heard Ron’s voice, just loud enough to be audible as he spoke to Hermione and Neville. “The Slug Club is a horrid name,” he groused, poking his trowel with some annoyance at the edges of a stubborn pod. 

Hermione’s voice was dry when she replied. “Well, we students certainly didn’t choose it, it’s what he’s always called it. From back when he was first here. Besides, Ron, you don’t need to be cross, we’re supposed to bring a guest each. I rather assumed you’d be mine.”

Draco paused, almost missing the vine that tried to coil its spiny length around Theo’s fingers before managing to wrangle it back. His eyes darted over to the Gryffindor table, watching Ron as he gave Hermione a warm smile, clearly mollified by the invitation. “Yeah, alright. Thanks, ‘Mione. That’ll be fun.”

Something hard and uncomfortable lodged itself in Draco’s chest, and he tried hard to swallow past it. There was absolutely no sense in being jealous over that--for one, he knew that Ron had a girlfriend, and for another, he was well-aware that Hermione would not have asked if she held even the faintest of romantic feelings for her best friend. She was a brave girl, but far more shy when it came to such matters.

And it wasn’t as if Draco could have asked her to be his date to the dinner. Even without Blaise being there too, it would be too risky if word spread. 

He would just need to get right over the spark of frustration that had ignited.

Inter-house tensions started mounting, as they always did, as the next Slytherin VS Gryffindor Quidditch game approached. Every match had students’ competitive sides emerging, but it always seemed far more potent when it was crimson and emerald. Ron and Ginny were kept far busier than normal with Angelina’s rigorous training schedule, so he was often late if able to make it at all when Hermione arranged secretive meetings in the Prefects bathroom.

“Dean Thomas took over for Katie, as a Chaser,” he told them wearily one evening, running bubbles and hot water into the elaborate bathtub--more like a small swimming pool--in order to soak his sore legs. “He’s decent. But I hope she comes back soon.”

“Don’t we all,” Hermione murmured, continuing to peruse her notes. “I mean, I know you’re not being insensitive, we want her back in general as well as for Quidditch. And maybe she’ll be able to tell us who jinxed her...”

Draco sighed, the memory of that unpleasant day bringing his thoughts back to the newest memory that he had to share with them. 

Keeping his voice quiet--they used Silencing charms and a few other handy little traps to make sure they had plenty of warning if anyone was coming, but it was not worth the risk of an intruder hearing any of the things that Draco learned from Dumbledore--Draco summarized the details of the Headmaster’s memory from meeting the eleven-year-old Tom Riddle at the orphanage he was raised in.

“How surreal,” Hermione murmured, her eyes wide as she finally abandoned her notes, staring back at Draco. “I mean, obviously he had to have been more human once, a child even--but it’s not something you think about, and...well, it sounds like he always had evil in him. He must have been so disturbing to meet, for anyone.”

Ron appeared to be struggling to remain awake, even with his appropriate reaction to the story. “I’m sorry, I, I’ve got to crash,” he said wearily, drying off his legs and pulling his shoes back on. “‘Mione, catch me up on anything else you talk about? Night, Draco...”

She nodded agreement, and Draco murmured a farewell, watching the redhead go before glancing at Hermione with raised eyebrows. She sighed, sorting her homework back out and slowly putting it away in her bag. “He’s been a bit...despondent, the last few days. He’s not playing his best for the team because he lacks confidence in his abilities as a Keeper--and on top of those issues, he left practice the other night and walked in on Ginny and Dean snogging behind the locker room, so he’s been rather brassed off.”

Draco winced, half in sympathy and half in regret. “I saw them together in Hogsmeade,” he said, a bit sheepish. “I should’ve let him know--at least he’d have been aware of who she’s dating without finding out in such a jarring manner.”

Hermione shrugged, looking like she was trying not to smile. “To be fair, he’s essentially attached to Lavender by the lips every time they’re within five feet of each other, so...I’m not sure how much grace he deserves for not liking to see Ginny engaged in some public displays of affection.”

“Mm, well, I suppose you’re not wrong there,” he agreed, snorting. “Doesn’t bother you, then, I take it?”

“Not really,” Hermione said dismissively, moving to drain the bathtub from Ron’s use. “I mean, I personally think it’s nicer to be alone with your significant other for things like that, but I don’t see anything  _ wrong _ with kissing and hand-holding and what-have-you where others can see. As long as you’re being, you know, decent about it.”

Draco blinked, looking at her in mild confusion. “You think it  _ is _ nicer--not ‘would be’ nicer? What, are you seeing someone, too?” Merlin, why did that have to sound like he was afraid of the answer?

Hermione rolled her eyes. “No, of course I’m not. Frankly, I’m amazed Ron has the time, between Order business and school and Quidditch, but I’m not his mother. Besides, I’m can’t--” But she stopped there, looking a little embarrassed. “I mean, no. I’m, uh, much too busy with everything else.”

“Right.” Draco hated the relief that surged through him, even if she hadn’t actually admitted anything that he could consider a beacon of hope for himself. “Of course.”

* * *

Draco attended the match solely for Theo and Blaise’s sakes. But in the end, he was incredibly glad that he did go, because Ron absolutely shocked the entire school by performing with outright excellence, keeping the game soundly in Gryffindor’s favor so that they hardly needed the 150 points that they won when Ginny snatched the Snitch right out from between Harper’s grasping fingers. 

It was a solid victory, and Gryffindor was in fine spirits as a result. Draco managed not to cheer out loud, but he was struggling hard not to smile as he joined Pansy, making their way out of the stadium amidst the saddened Slytherins.

As he was passing the open door to the Gryffindor locker room, Draco paused, easily recognizing Hermione’s voice from within. Backtracking a little, Draco made his way to the side door to avoid being seen, checking carefully--it was only her and Ron inside, and Draco stepped in once he was sure that no one had seen him.

“--I just can’t believe you did that, I mean-- _ you _ , seriously? What with your addiction to rules and order, I’m honestly shocked at you, ‘Mione. Not mad, just...wow.”

Hermione laughed, reaching into her coat pocket and producing a familiar small vial; the Felix Felicis glittered in its still-wax-sealed bottle. “I didn’t, Ron, I just let you think I’d slipped it into the pumpkin juice,” she countered. “You’re bloody right, I’d never do something illegal like that--but you needed the confidence boost. I had to.”

Draco laughed out loud, stepping around the corner into the main space of the locker room as they both looked around at him in surprise. “Why, Granger, that is downright devious--brilliant, too. You really would have made an incredible Slytherin, I’m not joking.”

That just made Hermione smirk; Ron scoffed, clapping Draco on the shoulder as he finished hanging his gear back up, and started for the door. “She is a genius, but she’s just too good of a soul, I’m sorry, Draco. Right, well--Gryffindor’s throwing a victory party in the Tower, I’ll see you later, mate.”

Ron left with a last chuckle at his own joke, and Draco and Hermione watched him go before looking at each other to share a bemused headshake. 

It occurred to Draco that they were alone together with no pressure to be anywhere else; Hermione would be expected in Gryffindor Tower, of course, but not on a deadline. As long as they were attentive to anyone coming back this way from the castle, they had at least a few minutes of privacy. Draco drew a deep breath. “Hey, before you go after him--I need to talk to you. There’s something that I couldn’t put into a letter or have Pansy pass along, and I didn’t want to tell you while we were passing notes at the Three Broomsticks.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose, her expression twisting with mingled unease and concern. “Alright...is this worse than what you’ve already shared?” Her gaze dropped to his arm and then returned to his face, wordlessly acknowledging the presence of the Dark Mark. Reflexively Draco pressed his hand over the concealed symbol.

“No--not worse, not at all, but, ah, related to that,” he replied slowly. “I told you the contents of the memories that Dumbledore showed me--” Hermione nodded, brows drawing together as she tried to follow his train of thoughts. “--well, a detail I glossed over was that, in the very first one--”

“Bob Ogden, the Ministry official who came for Morfin,” Hermione supplied promptly. Draco had to smile at her ridiculously flawless recollection, and at the insuppressible academic instinct to regurgitate the information at the smallest seeming cue.

“Yes, Ogden.” Draco moved to sit down, and Hermione followed, her gaze intent on his face. “Well, when Ogden first got there...Morfin spoke at him in Parseltongue. And then when Marvolo came outside to try and run him off, he spoke to his son in the same. I don’t think Merope had it, but Voldemort’s father and brother did.” Hermione looked perplexed at why he was telling her this, and Draco took one more deep, fortifying breath. “When they spoke, I didn’t realize at first that they weren’t using English.”

Instantly she inhaled sharply, and Draco knew that she understood him. After all, she had once watched someone she loved deeply speak Parseltongue--and he, too, hadn’t known what he’d done until she and Ron explained it to him afterward. 

Hermione’s voice was low. “How?”

Draco gestured at his left arm. “It’s complicated.” He outlined Dumbledore’s opinions on how his taking the Dark Mark had differed from all other Death Eaters before him--including Severus--and how the Headmaster believed that it had altered Draco. “...not unlike how his attempt on Harry’s life as an infant had changed him.” 

Draco met her eyes, offering a tight smile. “The bottom line is...that it seems this--” He lifted his arm, then dropped it again. “--appears to be my ‘lightning scar.’”

“So it’s...it’s sort of...a good thing,” Hermione murmured, her tone awed. “I mean, not, but--it’s, it’s a weapon against him. A tool that benefits us?” Draco nodded silently, and Hermione exhaled heavily. “Bloody hell, Draco.”

“About sums it up.” Draco looked toward the open locker room door, through which there were still sounds of distant post-match celebration or sorrow. “We can’t linger much longer, you’ll be expected to be up there with your best mate.” He stood up, and almost reflexively held out his hand. Hermione smiled, accepting it and holding on she rose as well, and they headed for the door. “Tell Ron about it for me, will you? I have to tell Theo and Pansy.”

She nodded as stepped ahead of him and paused there, watching to make sure that the crowd of students had moved much closer to the castle before she gestured to Draco that it was safe to head out. They made their way across the grounds, risking the moment to walk together.

Ahead, Ron had somehow managed to not even make it to the front steps of the castle before Lavender had reached him, and slung herself around his neck as usual. Draco grimaced at the immediate snogging that commenced, and Hermione just sighed, throwing him a  _ what can you do? _ look before she moved on to join Ginny, who was gagging mockingly behind her brother’s back to the immense amusement of nearby classmates.

“That is utterly revolting.” Draco turned, finding that Pansy had also hung back to wait for him. She was watching Ron and Lavender, and there was unrestrained disgust in her expression. “I just don’t understand it, I really don’t. He was actually starting to seem vaguely sensible to me, with all the time we spent in the DA...I almost thought he might be  _ interesting _ .” She shook her head, wrinkling her nose. “And now he’s just another vapid moron. Merlin, is she  _ eating  _ his face?”

Draco stared at his best friend in amazement, and finally she registered his lack of response and looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Pans,” Draco asked, starting to smile. “Are you  _ jealous _ ?” She scoffed at once, flipping him a prompt two-fingered salute, and Draco’s eyes widened when she gave no verbal denial. “Oh my God, you  _ are _ . You fancy  _ Weasley _ ?”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, look at you and Granger.” Pansy scowled back at him but there was no heat in her gaze or voice. “I don’t  _ fancy _ him, I just--I thought he was more intelligent than--well, than  _ that _ ,” she added, gesturing irritably at where Ron and Lavender were staggering into the castle among the rest of the rowdily celebrating Gryffindors.

They resumed walking, and it was a moment or so before Draco found his voice, speaking more quietly. “...so you...you think it’s not good, then, me and Granger?”

Pansy looked at over him in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected him to concede that point; then she smiled fondly and slung an arm around his shoulders with a gentle squeeze. “Oh, Malfoy. On the contrary; I don’t think you could possibly set your eye on a worthier lass for you. She’s absolutely your match, in brains and in wit.” Her smile faded a little, a touch of sadness entering her eyes. “It’s just...”

“I know.” Draco sighed, cutting her off. “Trust me, I know.”

She dropped her arm to take his hand, tight and comforting, and they headed inside and off towards the dungeons, listening to the fading sounds of Gryffindor excitement echoing floors above. “It’ll sort itself out, love. I’m sure of it”

* * *

As the Christmas season dawned over Hogwarts, the air of holiday festivities spread throughout the castle and the grounds. There was mistletoe suddenly hanging in every corridor, and a sense of mingled tension and merriment, exam preparation warring with enthusiasm for the looming vacation from studies.

The Prefects, at this point, were on strict instructions to be on the lookout because Fred and George had started a cleverly-disguised mail-order system for their products. As a result, prank items were getting into the castle past Filch’s watchful eye and probing Secrecy Sensor. 

Alarmingly, the specific concern that the Prefects were warned about was the rising use of the twins’ unfortunately functional and potent love potions.

Draco was suddenly very, very glad that the majority of people either disliked him, ignored him, or assumed that he was dating Pansy; it meant that he was not frequently offered drinks or snacks everywhere he went by eyelash-batting girls, and if he was, he could be fairly confident that no one was trying to slip him a sodding love potion.

Still, he did not miss that several of those who  _ were _ being targeted were also members of the Slug Club, including Blaise and Cormac McLaggen. With that in mind, Draco assumed that some of the girls purchasing the stupid potions just wanted to be invited to Slughorn’s impending Christmas party, which was reportedly going to be absolutely epic.

Entering the Great Hall on a crispy, cold winter morning, Draco was passing by the Gryffindor table when he overheard Lavender--who was of course hanging from Ron’s neck, though mercifully not currently attacking his mouth with her own--giggling as she asked Hermione, “Granger, is it true that McLaggen asked you to be his date to Slughorn’s bash?”

Draco slowed down immediately, pretending to be halted in his course by a gaggle of Ravenclaw third years who were dawdling in the aisle between tables.

It wasn’t clear if Hermione knew he was there. She snorted at the question, though, shaking her head. “Yes, he did ask, but that is  _ not _ happening. Merlin knows, even if I was going alone, I’d have turned down that pompous git. No, Ron’s my guest for the evening.”

Lavender sniffed, looking a touch sulky at the reminder of this fact. Draco suspected that she’d been trying to needle someone into asking her to attend so that she could stay at Ron’s side, but it appeared that no one had endeavored to help her with that. “Just remember, Ron’s  _ taken _ ,” Lavender said pointedly to Hermione, snuggling closer to the ginger. Ron, for his part, was either genuinely fully focused on his sausages, or desperately trying to remain out of the exchange between his girlfriend and his best friend.

Hermione rolled her eyes, her expression mingled amusement and slight annoyance. “Lavender, I can promise you one thing with absolute certainty: I do love Ron, truly, but I could literally never see Ron that way. I assure you, your claim is secure.”

Lavender eyed the other girl for a long moment, then seemed to determine that she was sincere. “Good.” She smiled then, the burst of jealousy apparently over. “Thank you.”

Draco couldn’t keep stalling, as the Ravenclaws had now moved on. But as he continued, Hermione caught his eye, and she blushed slightly. Something told him that she hadn’t realized he had been listening.

Moving to the Slytherin table, Draco’s mind was swirling as he sat down to eat. He thought about Pansy, and her feelings--whether she denied it or not, she did have them. If Ron was at the Slug Club Christmas party without Lavender, and Hermione was there...and he and Pansy, too...Draco swallowed. He didn’t like the thought that he might be unconsciously conspiring to ruin Ron and Lavender’s relationship, but he could hardly lie and pretend that he didn’t of course feel that Pansy was a better match for the redhead than the Gryffindor girl.

He shook the thought away as Pansy collapsed onto the bench beside him, clearing his face to make sure she didn’t ask what he’d been contemplating.

Slughorn had graciously arranged to have the party on the evening following their final day of exams, so the students were in very good moods as they dressed up and arrived at the Potion master’s now-very-festively decorated office. The ceiling and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson, and gold hangings, so that it looked and felt almost as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy, bathed in soft red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the center of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. 

The four Slytherins arrived together, entering the spacious room to see that the Gryffindors were already there. McLaggen, to Draco’s shock had seemingly chosen to ask Luna Lovegood to accompany him, and he hid a smile as they passed by and heard her describing at length--to McLaggen’s visible confusion--what wrackspurts were.

Draco’s eyes drifted to Hermione, where she and Ron were chatting with Ginny and Dean. She was wearing a lovely pale pink gown that fit her curves perfectly, and Draco couldn’t have denied to save his life that his breath actually caught at how beautiful she looked in the soft candle- and firelight illuminating the office.

Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and a number of house elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they looked like little roving tables. 

“Draco, m’boy!” Slughorn boomed in greeting, almost as soon as the four of them had appeared in the doorway. “And Mr. Zabini, and of course your friends--” He nodded courteously at Theo and Pansy, who both smiled politely back. “--come in, come in, so many people I’d like you all to meet!” 

Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. He put his hands on Draco and Zabini’s shoulders, steering them purposefully into the center of the party; Pansy and Theo followed behind them, looking bemused at how quickly Slughorn moved past his acknowledgment of their presence.

“Lads, I’d like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine, author of  _ Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires _ —and, of course, his friend Sanguini.” Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, grabbed Draco’s hand and then Blaise’s, and shook them enthusiastically; the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated with dark shadows under his eyes, merely nodded. He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and fascinated.

“Mr. Malfoy, I am simply delighted!” Worple chirped, peering shortsightedly up into Draco’s face. “I happen to know your father, a fine gentleman; he spouts your praise constantly. And Mr. Zabini--when Horace told me that you were attending, I was just saying to him,  _ where _ the biography that we’ve all been waiting for about your stunning mother--I’d be delighted to write it myself, if she would consider it--”

Blaise looked torn between a tense smile and a pained grimace, and Draco wished he could intervene for his friend without it appearing rude. Blaise didn’t like discussing his mother’s unusual marital history. “I’ll certainly give her your name,” he offered, which sent Worple into conniptions of excitement.

After a dutiful few minutes of conversation--which felt far more like networking--Draco excused himself; to his infinite gratitude, Theo promptly set himself to keeping Blaise occupied enough that he wouldn’t notice where Draco wandered off to. Smiling appreciatively at his friend, Draco slipped away, making his way carefully over to where Ron and Hermione were hugging the wall by the window. 

Ginny and Dean were dancing merrily, and Luna wandered over to join the two Gryffindors when she saw Draco with them. Pansy had engaged Sanguini in conversation, much to the seeming irritation of his little crowd of admiring females.

“What’s happened to you?” Draco asked Hermione, because she looked distinctly disheveled, rather as though she had just fought her way out of a thicket of Devil’s Snare. 

“Oh, I had to get away from Cormac,” she replied, sighing heavily. “I left him under the mistletoe,” she added in further explanation, when Draco continued to look questioningly at her. Seeing his face twist into a startled frown before he began turning away, scanning for McLaggen with a glare, she caught his arm, pulling him back. “No, don’t, it doesn’t matter. Ron told him to leave me alone.”

“Which doesn’t mean that he will, not forever, but at least he had the decency to show a little embarrassment at having someone have to intervene,” Ron remarked, shaking his head. His expression was dark as he, too, eyed the other Gryffindor boy. “What a wanker, honestly.”

Pansy joined them then, snacking on something that looked extremely questionable; Draco thought for a second it was some sort of meatball, but it appeared to a bizarre grey color. Pansy smirked at his confused expression. “Dragon balls,” she told him, popping it into her mouth. “Though I don’t think it’s dragon meat, I’m really not sure what’s in them. They taste fabulous, though--but they give one the worst possible breath.” 

Ron smirked at that. “Maybe you could trick McLaggen into eating some,” he suggested, giving Hermione a wry grin. “Then his vanity might keep him from trying to corner Hermione under the mistletoe again.” 

Pansy laughed at that, holding out the small gilded plate on which she had a few more of the odd-looking hors d'oeuvres. Hermione rolled her eyes, grabbing one and eating it herself. “Merlin, maybe it will keep him at bay. He’s awful.”

Draco couldn’t help laughing, despite his lingering anger at hearing how McLaggen was behaving towards Hermione. As they all enjoyed the moment, with Ron and Luna also curiously taste-testing the questionable party snack, Pansy leaned in close so that only Draco could hear her. “Are you aware that you’ve got literal heart eyes over Hermione, love?” 

Draco flushed, giving her a gentle shove, but he could hardly argue--and she clearly knew it.

As the evening wore on, the music became a little more usable for the teenagers in the room; Ron invited Hermione to dance, leading her into the center of the room to join Dean and Ginny. Draco watched them peripherally, struggling once more with his jealousy; he wanted to cut in, but he couldn’t risk it, not with non-DA members in the room. 

“You and Luna could take a spin,” Pansy remarked, and Draco saw the understanding in her eyes. She was trying to take his mind off of it.

Luna brightened visibly at the offer, which would have settled the decision if Draco had been hesitating still. “Sure,” he said warmly, taking the Ravenclaw girl’s hand and expertly twirling her into the more open space. “Just follow my lead--I’ve been dancing formally since I could walk, basically.” Over her shoulder, he saw Pansy tug Theo away from Blaise and McLaggen to pull him into a dance as well, filling the space with dancing couples.

Pansy hadn’t been wrong; it did serve as a pleasant distraction. Luna was neither a skilled nor a poor dancer, so Draco focused on guiding her and teaching her, and before long they were laughing and spinning without much coordination. The steps didn’t matter, not when they were having pure, mindless fun.

The party lasted well into the evening, and overall it was quite decent; the older faculty members and older warlocks in attendance very rapidly became intoxicated, which led to them talking loudly about a wide range of topics that eventually became more and more nonsensical, to the immense amusement of the teenagers present.

Professor Trelawney was swaying around the room clutching a bottle of Sherry in each hand, complaining to anyone who would listen about having Firenze, the centaur, remain on to teach Divination alongside her. She was particularly incensed, it seemed, by how many students had dropped the course after their third year, despite it being--according to her--the most important magical discipline taught at Hogwarts.

Slughorn was red-faced from mead as he laughed, guiding Trelawney to a seat. “Now, now, Sybil--we all know that everyone thinks  _ their _ subject is the most important! All that we can do is make sure that we’re turning out well-rounded, well-connected students, in the end. Ah, Severus--better late than never, my friend, come, join us--have a drink!”

Severus allowed the older professor to haul him over to the little cluster, clearly uncomfortable, but offering a terse smile as Slughorn beamed at him tipsily. 

Spotting Hermione, Slughorn’s expression of delight only increased as he beckoned her over. Ron and Luna trailed behind her, and Draco drifted over to the cluster as well, smiling at his godfather. “And I have to congratulate you on your teaching prowess over the past few years, Severus--take Miss Granger here, for example, she’s an absolutely incredible Potions maker! A true master in the making, no doubt about it!”

Draco couldn’t stop his proud look as Hermione blushed, smiling shyly at Slughorn’s praise. He hid behind his goblet of pumpkin juice, shooting her a swift wink when she caught his eye. Hermione beamed, looking like she was having a truly good time now.

Gradually, as the night wore on, people tired and started departing with calls of thanks to Professor Slughorn for the lovely evening. Just after eleven, McLaggen, Blaise, and Dean had gone, which lightened the atmosphere considerably for the others; Draco no longer had to conceal his ease at being around the Gryffindors. 

Emboldened by this surreal sense of freedom, he let himself act on impulse, approaching Hermione where she was hovering by the drink table. “Do you want to dance?”

She brightened at once, casting a quick, reflexive glance around--but she clearly trusted his judgment, as she was accepting his offered hand before her eyes had even come back to meet his. “Yes--sure, definitely.”

Leading her into the center of the room--Ginny and Luna seemed to be trying to teach Ron how to dance properly, though neither of them appeared to actually know any formal steps, themselves--Draco tried not to let it show that his heart fluttered as he placed the hand not holding hers on her waist, drawing her close enough to begin moving with the soft music still coming from the small enchanted orchestra.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you actually know how to dance,” Hermione said, grinning. “No one our age ever does, I’ve gotten rather used to assuming the worst.”

Draco smirked. “I’ve taken dancing lessons my entire life. Elite pureblood cultural expectation, of course, but I think my mother would have insisted on it even if it wasn’t. It’s highly likely that I could waltz flawlessly before I’d developed the coordination to run without tripping.” He paused, then chuckled, because even if she mocked him, Hermione couldn’t be any worse than Pansy. “Ballroom and classical dancing, and I was also thoroughly trained in ballet.”

Her eyebrows shot up, looking both amused and pleased. “I can tell that that took enormous effort to admit to me,” Hermione teased, then gasped softly as Draco tightened his hand on hers to brace her before giving her an expert twirl with the right swell of the music. “Goodness,” she laughed, coming back to his hold with a bright blush on her cheeks. “Is there anything that you  _ aren’t _ good at, Mr. Malfoy?”

The use of his surname made him snort a laugh, and Draco merely grinned wryly back at her. "Well, I don't quite have the lung capacity for any wind instruments,” he shot back, and Hermione blinked, then narrowed her eyes in an unspoken inquiry. Draco couldn’t stop smiling. “Oh, along with the dancing, I’m proficient at playing the piano and the violin.”

“Merlin,” she muttered, sounding endearingly like she spent far too much time with the Weasley brood. “I mean, I can play the piano as well, but not  _ proficiently _ . Well, I suppose it was time I learned something positive about all that fancy society you grew up in, hm?”

Draco’s smile softened, and he shrugged as the music slowed a little, matching the pace by drawing Hermione even closer to himself. He felt a vague hyper-awareness of his hand still on her waist, the warmth of her skin through her dress, but it was not as charged with tension as moments like this often felt.

It simply felt  _ right _ .

“It wasn’t all bad,” he confirmed quietly. “I won’t say I’m not quite proud of my education and culture--as is the case for many people, I imagine, the bad flowed from ideologies and opinions.” Draco sighed. “How different I might have been, if either of my parents were more of a mind like my aunt, or my cousins.”

“You wouldn’t be you,” Hermione said promptly, and for a heartbeat it seemed as if her hands both tightened, fingers flexing against his, and over his shoulder. “No one is ever perfect, Draco, so none of the bad that you’ve endured or done changes the good that you do, and are, now. And I think you’re exactly as you should be.” She smiled faintly. “Don’t go changing on me, please.”

It felt like a bubble of pure warmth and golden glowing light was expanding inside of his chest, encompassing his heart and lungs and every other organ as it spread. “Yes, ma’am,” Draco teased, and the intensity of the moment faded as Hermione giggled. “You have my solemn word.”

He didn’t really track the length of time they danced, or when the music began fading more between pieces. At some point, he caught sight of Pansy and Theo parting ways with Professor Slughorn and heading for the doorway; she smiled over at him and waved, leaving Draco with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna.

As midnight approached, and the majority of Slughorn’s older guests had also departed--most of them quite sloshed, to the teenagers’ endless amusement--Slughorn gave a regretful sigh. “Well, young folk, I suppose we must draw our evening’s festivities to a close,” he declared, smiling sleepily at his students. “You all need your rest before leaving for home tomorrow--and make sure that you have a wonderful Christmas holiday, you hear?”

Hermione stepped back, and Draco’s hands immediately felt a little chillier. He nodded at the Potions master, starting to try and help tidy things a bit, but Professor Slughorn laughed and waved him off. “The house elves will manage, dear boy. Off to bed with you, I’ve kept you awake far too late.”

Conceding, Draco bid the older wizard goodnight, fetching his cloak and leaving the warmly-lit study. 

As he entered the much dimmer corridor, though, he heard a small commotion of voices around the corner. Frowning, Draco tied his cloak and walked over, already wary at the agitated tones he could hear.

To his horror--and also, somehow, his complete lack of surprise--it was Crabbe and Goyle once again. They had run headlong into Ron and Hermione, though Draco couldn’t imagine why they were wandering the castle at this hour, or why they would be this far from the dungeons. The other Slytherins appeared quite angry that the Gryffindors had stumbled upon them, and they had their wands drawn, seemingly ready to do something quite stupid.

Draco reached for his own wand without a second thought; but he was saved from revealing his presence or doing something reckless, himself, when Severus emerged from Slughorn’s office by another door and stopped dead at the sight of his students. His brow furrowed with annoyance, and Draco almost sagged with relief that this could be handled appropriately--a professor, and the head of Slytherin House no less, had every right to punish the pair of them for both being out after curfew, and for trying to duel their classmates. 

“What are you doing out of your dormitory?” Professor Snape asked coldly, advancing on the little group. Goyle appeared instantly to recognize his own carelessness, and lowered his wand.

Crabbe, however, turned his back on Severus as if he actually intended to outright ignore his Head of House. In doing so, he spotted Draco standing at the corridor corner, and Crabbe sneered at him. “We thought it was a party that any Slytherins were welcome at, seein’ as Slughorn used to be head of Slytherin, and some were invited,” he said, the excuse blatant in its falseness. “Didn’t know there was an exclusive list.”

Slughorn appeared beside Draco, having apparently heard the ruckus, and he was either too polite or too intoxicated to react to the almost suffocating tension. “Oh, that’s quite alright, lads,” he said jovially. “I’d have been delighted to have you join us--but at this late hour, the party is unfortunately over...but perhaps next time....”

Severus’ voice was whip-sharp, barely containing his outrage. “Return to bed at once. We will address this behavior when the holidays are over.” 

With one final, sulky glare, Crabbe and Goyle complied, slouching away into the darkness and disappearing.

Hermione was physically shaking, wide-eyed and pale, and Slughorn gave her a concerned look, reaching out to pat her back gently. “My dear, are you quite alright? You look faint, do you need to sit down?”

Her bottom lip actually trembled, and Draco stepped closer as well, worried. Hermione’s eyes moved to him, and he could almost see her calm as their eyes met. She nodded, seemingly composing herself. “Y-yes. I’m fine. Thank you, Professor Slughorn--for such a lovely evening.” 

She gave him a more confident smile, and he nodded, mumbling some affirmation as Hermione glanced at Ron before beginning to walk. Ginny and Luna were the last to exit Slughorn’s study, and they fell in with the two Gryffindors, the four of them leaving for their respective dormitory towers.

Draco watched until they vanished from sight, then turned around and found Severus watching him questioningly. Forcing himself to relax, Draco moved his hand from where it had remained halfway towards his wand, concealed beneath his cloak.

“I haven’t...really spoken much at all to Crabbe, or Goyle, lately,” he admitted, uncertainty staining his tone. “Not since coming back for fifth year, if I’m honest. I’ve no idea what they were thinking--or Crabbe, anyway. Goyle’s always been a follower.” Draco frowned. “Maybe I should make more of an effort with him...guide him away from Crabbe’s influence...”

Severus looked mildly disturbed by his words. But after a moment he smoothed out his expression, sighing. “We shall see. Go get some sleep, Draco.” He reached out, squeezing his godson’s shoulder in gentle reassurance. “I’ll come by the Manor whenever I am able over the holidays. We can talk--when it is safe to do so--and continue practicing your Occlumency.”

* * *

That night, Draco found it a bit hard to sleep. Crabbe and Goyle were snoring away in their beds, and Blaise was out cold thanks to a sleeping draught. But Draco couldn’t get his mind to slow down, and eventually the grating noises of his Housemates ended up with him climbing out of his four-poster bed, grabbing his quilt and a pillow, and trudging back down the stairs to the common room.

Sleeping on a leather sofa, no matter how old or how well worn in, was an uncomfortable experience, but it was one he had done many times before. Working to make the sofa closest to the fireplace a bit softer, Draco flopped down onto it, turning his head to stare out the window, watching the shadows of the Black Lake’s plants drift in an oddly hypnotizing movements, listening to the haunting melodies of the mermaids as they swam by.

Eventually, his eyes drifted towards the portraits that hung on the wall. They mainly held the portraits of several influential Slytherins, like Merlin himself, but as they tended to wander the school in other pictures, they weren’t often in the common room. There was, of course, one depiction of Slytherin himself, hanging on the wall above the fireplace, but it was a still portrait. 

No one knew what Slytherin was really like, and by the time moving portraits were a thing, he was already dead and gone. The image of him within the ornate frame depicted him as a tall, older, balding gentleman, with a silver beard that flowed down towards his feet, and steel-grey eyes that made anyone nervous.

A long time ago, Draco had been proud to be a Slytherin; a part of him still was. But knowing now what the man himself had stood for, what Draco himself had once supported, a part of him now felt shame for being in this House. There were good attributes to being a Slytherin; ambition and cunning weren’t necessarily bad things, and creativity was also an attribute worthy of many Slytherins. But the Dark reputation that hung over the House, the fact that there hadn’t been a Muggleborn student in Slytherin in decades….

_ I’m not like you _ , Draco thought defiantly, glaring up at the portrait.  _ I don’t want to be like you ever again. _

Salazar did not answer, and eventually, Draco’s eyes slid shut without him registering it. His dreams were dark and shrouded in shadows, whilst the screaming voices of the people Voldemort had tortured echoed in his ears, and there, Nagini, slithering towards him, those yellow eyes fixed on him with malice.

“Stay away from me!” Draco told her. “Get away!”

Nagini didn’t seem to mind him, as she reared back suddenly, her mouth prying open, her fangs glistening with venom—

“ _ Draco _ !”

He jerked awake, a hand reaching up to punch at whoever had grabbed his shoulders, but another hand grabbed his wrist to keep him from striking. “Draco, calm down, it’s us!” Pansy hissed.

“Holy Merlin,” Draco wheezed, feeling himself covered in cold sweat. “Don’t scare me like that Pansy. What are you doing down here? What time is it?”

“You hadn’t come back to the dorm,” Theo said worriedly. “And it’s nearly dawn, sometimes you come back to catch real sleep in your bed before we have to go. So I came to check on you and you were…” His voice trailed off, and he and Pansy exchanged worried looks.

“I was  _ what _ ?” Draco asked, grabbing his blanket and wiping his face dry. 

“You were...hissing,” Pansy said hesitantly. “Like a snake. And you were thrashing like you were having a seizure, but...above all, you were literally hissing.”

Ah. Right. Well, there was no time like the present, he supposed. 

“I wasn’t having a seizure,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes and sighing. “I’m a Parselmouth now, I was probably speaking in Parseltongue.”

The silence that followed his announcement was fraught with tension, and when he finally looked up at his friends, he saw how wide-eyed they were, their jaws nearly on the floor with shock. “I can’t really explain how it happened,” he said, “but when Voldemort branded me, he accidentally gave me the ability to speak Parseltongue. It was like with Potter and his scar, but I’ve got the bloody Dark Mark instead.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Pansy waved her hands in front of his face, while Theo, with visible difficulty, closed his mouth. “When did you even find out about this?”

“...During my first lesson with Dumbledore. When I was in that memory, I was in the presence, sort of, of a family who could speak Parseltongue, and most of their conversation was in it. Dumbledore didn’t know what they were saying, but he saw that I could understand them.”

“Draco!” Pansy looked scandalized. “That lesson was  _ weeks  _ ago! And you didn’t think to tell us about this after all that time?”

“I was trying to process it,” Draco protested. “Besides, it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose. I was…” He paused then, the mental image of Nagini flashing through his mind, and he swallowed. “I was having a nightmare…”

“How could you not know you’re speaking in Parseltongue?” Pansy demanded. “You’re in Slytherin House. The entire common room is decorated with snake images!”

“I was speaking it while I was asleep, not awake, you twit.”

Theo gently rebuffed Pansy when she went to try and hit Draco’s shoulder in retaliation. “This might be bad,” he said seriously. “Do the Gryffindors know yet?”

Draco sighed. “I mean… I told Hermione. I thought she might have a good enough way to make sure I didn’t freak about about it, like you two currently are.” Seeing the expressions on their faces, he reached out to gently take Pansy’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I know, I’m sorry. I just… Everything’s changing too quickly for me to catch up, and I’m struggling a little.”

“Struggling or not, we’re your friends,” Pansy said, dropping onto the couch and pulling him into a hug. “You know you can always come to us. We’re in a war now, Draco. We need to stick together, no matter the cost, or we’ll be too busy fighting between ourselves to defend ourselves, which is exactly what that ugly monster wants.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“Promise us you’ll stay safe,” Theo said. “You’re going right back into the heart of it all. You have to keep your guard up at all times.”

“I know. I promise.”

* * *

Every return to Malfoy Manor felt colder than the last, and it had nothing to do with the chill of a colder-than-usual winter that blanketed the estate in snow as Draco arrived. He had barely placed his possessions in his bedroom and removed his traveling cloak before there was a knock, and Draco didn’t even have to look to know exactly whose presence was darkening the doorway of his suite.

Bellatrix smiled when he faced her, his own expression carefully neutral. “Come, nephew. Our master has been anticipating your homecoming; he wishes to hear how your task is coming along.”

Draco followed behind her, taking advantage of the brief interlude to carefully and thoroughly construct the walls in his mind, arranging every thought and emotion so that any skilled Legilimens could look into his mind, and presume that they were seeing everything. The illusion of having nothing to hide from the Dark Lord was far better camouflage than relying on the hope that he wouldn’t question Draco for guarding himself.

Entering the drawing room, he found it arranged as it had been when he had taken the Dark Mark, though at present it was only Voldemort, and Greyback, waiting for them. Bellatrix went to her master’s side, and Draco moved to stand directly before him, bracing himself to not so much as flinch at the raspy, wet sound of the werewolf’s growled breathing from where he skulked behind the Dark Lord’s chair.

“Draco.” He met the snakelike eyes, imagining that it was just his own father he was facing. Uncomfortable, formal, holding himself ramrod-straight and almost at military attention, but unafraid. Above all, Draco had to appear fearless. “You have not notified us to the contrary, so I presume that your Vanishing Cabinet endeavor is successfully underway.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Draco had to take pride in the complete lack of wavering in his voice this time. “The one in Borgin & Burke’s is secure, and being kept in a discreet room for me to check on it when I am able. I intend to go while I’m home, to confirm the repair instructions.”

“And its twin?”

“I've located it. I’ve been working on it--it was significantly damaged, from the incident I mentioned previously, but it’s not beyond salvaging.” Draco swallowed, counting his breaths. He kept his voice level; he was giving a report, not offering excuses. He did not need to sound pleading. “I have not made quite the progress I would have liked, this past term, but given its state I have managed more than I expected to.”

“Then you remain confident in this plan,” Voldemort murmured, examining Draco as if he was a fascinating insect under study. “You are certain that you will succeed, and do so before the end of this school year?”

Draco nodded, not breaking eye contact. “I am certain, My Lord.”

Before anything else could be said, there was a sudden hissing behind him, and Draco’s eyes widened slightly when he realized the hissing was accompanied by words, said in a strangely feminine tone that sounded all too soft despite the harshness of the undercurrent sounds. “ _ My Lord, I have returned _ .”

“ _ Ah, Nagini. _ ” When Voldemort spoke, it was in that same hissing tone, and Draco swallowed as Nagini slithered into view from behind him, her thick scaly body nearly brushing against his foot. It was the first time since the memory of Bob Odgen that Draco had ever heard Parseltongue being used, and now he was witnessing it first hand. “ _ I hope you have fed well _ ?”

“ _ Yes, My Lord. _ ” In any other situation, Nagini could almost be a sight to behold, the way she climbed the chair like it was nothing, and resting her upper body around the man’s shoulders, allowing him to reach up and gently scratch at her chin, her tongue flicking out lazily. “ _ You know the boy is nervous, yes _ ?”

His heart nearly stopped. Not only was he listening in without meaning to, but Nagini was clearly discussing him, almost delighting in his state. And she didn’t even know he could understand her, could hear this brief conversation without being detected as a fellow Parselmouth.

It was...oddly liberating.

“ _ Of course he is nervous _ ,” Voldemort said dismissively. “ _ He’s nothing but a stupid child. But he’ll learn soon enough _ .” Then, as if remembering that they were in present company, he sighed, before switching to English. “Very well, Draco. You are dismissed.”

Bellatrix moved forward then, her smile almost feral as she placed her hand on Draco’s shoulder and guided him back out of the room, not seeming to notice that his mind was absolutely reeling. Not only had he heard a conversation that was no doubt private, but he had gotten away with it, with Voldemort being none the wiser, even if he did call Draco stupid. As they climbed the stairs again--Draco didn’t know if she had been instructed to escort him to and fro, but he hated her for doing so--Bellatrix was practically purring.

“You are doing well, nephew,” she murmured, pride dripping from her words. “I had my fears, knowing my sister’s gentler heart as I do, that she might have influenced you negatively...made you soft.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulder, and Draco could feel the prick of her long nails even through his shirt and jacket. 

“But you are strong. You are going to be so valuable. And rest assured,” Bellatrix added as they reached his door, and she let him step inside without her following. “The Dark Lord will reward you handsomely, my dear, once the Death Eaters have taken Hogwarts.”

Draco just nodded; he didn’t trust his voice not to betray him. His aunt didn’t seem to notice, merely smirking once more before she turned away. 

Draco closed the door, and leaned forward to sag against it as his strength faded. The cool wood was soothing against his face as he took several deep, unsteady breaths, and it took nearly half an hour before Draco felt as if his heart had stopped hammering inside his chest.


	19. Open Up the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'...that’s far easier said than done for anyone.' Hermione’s eyes softened a bit. 'Feelings are complicated.'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've gotten a lot of feedback regarding the balance between canon-based and original content, and we wanted to make sure our beloved readers know--we hear ya, and we often agree. 
> 
> Year six was the odd one as far as this fascinating rewrite goes, because so many of the details honestly aren't hugely changed. With Draco in this role, taking up Harry's cause, the lessons with Dumbledore and the build-up towards the next year are fairly similar.
> 
> Now, we've worked up through chapter 27 as far as complete, prepped writing goes, so I can assure you firmly that we'll soon be stepping WELL away from canon-heavy content. :D

The Christmas holiday was as torturous and frustrating as Draco had known it would be, but by some miracle he survived. A few days after New Year’s--which was spent grimly within the Manor, a quiet dinner with his parents and watching the clock tick past midnight with little more than a murmured exchange of celebratory sentiment--Draco prepared to return to Hogwarts.

It was an infinite relief to step into the drawing room fireplace and leave the Manor behind, stepping through the green wall of Floo fire and emerging in Severus’ office. His godfather barely glanced up from his work, since Slytherin students would have been materializing all day, though he did pause when he realized that it was Draco. He watched the teenager dust himself off to make sure he didn’t spread soot all over, rising from his chair to return Draco’s hug once he was finished.

Draco knew that he no doubt looked pale and drawn, a touch sickly after the weeks of strained silence back home. Severus put a hand on his arm, stopping him from proceeding out of the office, and Draco sat down in front of the desk to wait.

The fireplace lit up again, a few more Slytherin students passing through with brief greetings to their Head of House.

Once it was just the two of them again, Severus conjured a goblet and handed it to Draco without a word, and he obligingly took a sip of the rose-colored liquid. It tasted lovely and made him instantly feel a little revitalized; Draco assumed it was some form of a calming draught, and drank it down. “Thanks,” he murmured once it was gone, and Severus nodded as he Vanished the goblet.

“Rest. We can catch up tomorrow.”

Draco made a sound of agreement and gathered his trunk and cloak, smiling wearily at Severus before leaving to make his way down to the dungeon dormitories.

Pansy and Theo were already back, occupying the usual armchairs by the common room fireplace that the three of them liked best. Draco took his possessions off to the boys’ room, then returned to join them, curling at one end of the sofa and letting out a long sigh of relief, pleased to be back where he felt safe, and with people he could fully trust.

“Saw Ron and Hermione at dinner,” Pansy told him very quietly, after a furtive glance confirmed that no one was within hearing distance. “They seemed alright.”

There was something to her tone that didn’t match the words; Draco knew his best friend well, and he could tell just from her voice and the look in her eyes that she was miffed about something. He raised his eyebrows at her curiously, but Pansy just wrinkled her nose and looked away.

It was Theo who explained, smirking as Pansy flipped him off immediately. “Oh, our Pansy is just feeling rather petty. Lavender Brown was also already back and at dinner. She spent more of the meal essentially sitting in Weasley’s lap than actually eating.”

“I was _not_ \--” Pansy began, seemingly resuming some banter that they had been exchanging on the subject before Draco’s return. He grinned, interrupting her indignation with a snort of laughter.

“It’s okay, we already knew you’re jealous,” Draco reminded her, reaching out to pat her knee fondly and then snatching his hand back before she could smack it. “Don’t worry, Pans, you know that nonsense isn’t going to last forever. I mean, I truly mean no disrespect to Lavender, she’s lovely enough--” Pansy grumbled something unintelligible, and Draco rolled his eyes at her. “Hey, she did fine in the DA. She _is_ perfectly decent. But she’s certainly not Weasley’s type, not really.”

“They why are they together?” she countered, huffing. “Clearly he likes her, who’s to say it isn’t love.”

Theo looked a little startled at that, but Draco felt that he actually understood. Though, considering all of Pansy’s previous teasing towards _him_ over his feelings for a certain Gryffindor, Draco was impressed that she was the first between the two of them to mention the L-word aloud. Truthfully, though, he hadn’t been sure that she would use it for her own situation, even knowing that it was true of his.

“Well, not to keep focusing on the unpleasant, but...I mean, do they literally do anything together besides snogging?” Draco asked, shaking his head when Pansy scowled at him. “No, I’m serious. So she fancies him, whatever it was that caught her eye--we’ve all had crushes. Most of us have dated or had some experience, too, and they don’t wind up being our soulmates, or something mad like that.” The tiniest hint of amusement touched Pansy’s eyes then, and Draco sighed. “Yes, yes, I’m acknowledging out loud about my...interlude, with that Durmstrang fellow in fourth year.”

He gave her knee another nudge. “But I’m also pointing out that you’re not exactly a blushing maiden, either.” Pansy clasped a hand to her heart, feigning outrage, and Draco chuckled. “I can promise you that for all of his good traits, Weasley is guaranteed to not recognize your feelings yet--and he’s certainly, ah, ‘special’ enough to not realize that he returns them--so really, don’t take offense to him being receptive when a girl who’s completely nice hurls herself at him for a post-Quidditch victory snog,” he concluded.

“One that has lasted for multiple months, now,” Theo tacked on, deadpan, and he cackled when Draco shot him a look, and a two-fingered salute. “But joking aside, Draco’s right.” His face and voice softened, reaching over from his armchair to squeeze Pansy’s hand affectionately. “That’ll fizzle out. And eventually, you and Weasley will figure out how to overcome your shared emotional constipation and communicate. Also, with your complexion and aesthetic, I advise a winter wedding.”

“Merlin, shut up,” she groaned, but she was laughing. “Bloody hell, why did I pick a pair of idiots for my best mates?”

Draco grinned as well, but his mind was already moving forward. He needed to take advantage of the current quiet--and privacy, as much as they had before all of the students were back--to update them on things that he hadn’t been able to risk putting into letters over the break.

He summarized what had happened after the pair of them had left Slughorn’s Christmas party. As Draco had known they would be, both Theo and Pansy were appropriately concerned by the further signs of trouble brewing from Crabbe and Goyle. “They arrived back right after we did,” Theo told him softly. “Didn’t say a word, but that doesn’t seem unusual anymore. Seems like they only speak to us directly if there’s some confrontation to prompt it.”

“I don’t actually know if I’m as uneasy about Goyle,” Draco allowed softly. “He’s always been a follower type. I’d even say that he can be a decent bloke, in his own slow way. But Crabbe...” He chewed on his bottom lip, frowning. “We need to keep a close eye on him--on them both--since he clearly is up to something.” Draco sighed. “Makes me miss the days when he just blindly obeyed and followed me around.”

Then again, he supposed, it had never been because Crabbe felt any respect for Draco. Crabbe was his father’s son--he just latched onto the figure with the most power and charisma, and the best chance of achieving their goals. Crabbe Senior was a loyal and vicious Death Eater; his son had only willingly shadowed Draco during the years when the blonde had gleefully bullied and abused others on the basis of pureblood ideology.

How Draco loathed remembering those days. 

It didn’t matter anymore, not now that he had made a change; he knew that he was on the right side, and he had the support and loyalty of his DA peers and the Order of the Phoenix. But that didn’t erase the shame completely.

The following morning the announcement boards had all been updated with official-looking posters declaring that Apparation lessons would soon begin for students who would be 17 years old by August 31. They joined the crowd rallying to sign up, eager to experience that next stepping stone towards completing their education.

Transfiguration was the first class of the new term, and after breakfast the Slytherin and Gryffindor sixth years filed into McGonagall’s classroom, taking their usual seats. Ron was looking perturbed about something, but whatever it was had Hermione hiding laughter and clearly taking the mickey out of him, so Draco just smiled faintly and faced front.

“As you are now approaching your N.E.W.T. examinations, the pace of your coursework is going to change somewhat, as well,” Professor McGonagall began without preamble as class began. “For the spring term, you are all going to be working on one lengthy essay assignment, on topics that I will prescribe.” She adjusted her spectacles, watching them shrewdly. “In light of the issues happening on a larger scale, in our community, this project is also going to serve as a means of facilitating inter-House cooperation and alliance.”

There was a confused murmuring at that; distantly, Draco remembered that McGonagall had described the Triwizard Tournament similarly, their fourth year. This was going to be a little more intimate, at any rate. He wondered what the angle was going to be.

Speaking over the mumbles, McGonagall pressed on. “Specifically, I will be deciding on pairings that place each of you with a peer from the other House that is represented in this classroom. In those pairs, you will be responsible for arranging to work together at your own pace in order to do the research and preparation, and to prepare the final assignment that will be submitted to me for your final sixth-year Transfiguration grade at the end of the term.”

Oh, this was brilliant. Draco stared at the professor with admiration; she didn’t even need to glance towards him, or Pansy or Theo, for him to know that they were the reason for the coy almost-smile that just barely curled the corner of her mouth. He didn’t know if Dumbledore had suggested this or if she’d come up with it herself, but it was a stroke of genius. 

He already knew without a doubt exactly who Professor McGonagall was going to pair him with, and he could have stood up and hugged her then and there for it.

Picking up a piece of parchment from her desk, McGonagall began reading off the pairings, pointedly ignoring any and all sounds of disapproval or protest that came from any student who didn’t like their assignment. 

_Lavender Brown and Millicent Bullstrode...Vincent Crabbe and Seamus Finnegan...Gregory Goyle and Dean Thomas...Theo Nott and Neville Longbottom...Pansy Parkinson and Ron Weasley_....

“...and, based on excellent academic performance, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.” Professor McGonagall set the parchment aside, selecting another. “Please rearrange yourselves in order to be seated with your partners, and I will come around and give you the specific topics that you will be researching for the term. And then you may begin planning your schedules for when and where to meet when not in class.”

There was a shuffle of motion as everyone gathered their things and wove around, sitting with their partners. Draco watched peripherally to make sure that no one acted out in resistance to the whole event, but even Crabbe seemed to just sulkily accept the situation, though he refused to rise; Seamus rolled his eyes, moving over to drop down next to him with a huff of annoyance.

Draco found Hermione at one of the farthest back desks, well-away from any pairs who could pose a risk to them. He couldn’t help his smirk as he sat beside her. “Considering your borderline-Slytherin levels of cunning, I’d almost suspect you of concocting this and suggesting it to McGonagall.”

Hermione hid a smile, laying out her textbook and some parchment for notes. “While I would be delighted to take credit, this was entirely beyond me. Oh, but it is perfect--we can meet in the library every day now. And we can stay as long as we need, I mean, we _are_ going to have to do the paper itself, in addition to...everything else.”

Professor McGonagall handed them a sheet of parchment with their subject, which Hermione immediately began to memorize. Draco smiled at the professor, seeing the knowing twinkle in her eyes. “Thank you,” he mouthed, and her head twitched in the barest hint of a nod before she moved on to the next pair of students.

It was the most perfect set up that they could have asked for. 

Both Hermione and Draco were diligent and competitive enough students that no one batted an eye--and no Slytherins appeared suspicious--at seeing them meeting in the library during almost every free period they had.

The library had always been a place of refuge for Draco, but it had never felt as peaceful or safe as it did now. Claiming a small table in the back corner of the library, with a charm in place to warn them of anyone approaching, they could alternate between working on the assignment and simply enjoying the freedom of not having to hide in hidden alcoves or rendezvous in the Prefects’ bathroom.

Ron and Pansy did not come to the library as frequently, which was perfectly predictable; neither of them came anywhere close to matching Draco or Hermione’s academic drive. But when they did come in, they sat nearby, either sharing their table or claiming the one nearest to it.

After a few days of meeting and working like this, Draco noticed that their best friends tended to work in seemingly awkward silence more often than not. He also noticed that whenever Ron and Pansy were there, Lavender was usually sitting nearby--whether or not she got Millicent Bulstrode to show up for that study session--and constantly attempting to get Ron’s attention. She usually failed, though Pansy clearly saw it, judging by her frequently clenching jawline, and the way she angled her chair to put her back to Lavender.

“I’m vaguely concerned about how that’s developing,” Draco commented at length, nodding in their direction when Hermione gave him a questioning look. “I mean, I don’t think either Brown or Pansy are going to snap and do something foolish, but...I don’t imagine that either pair is getting much actual work done, with all this sulking and silence.”

Hermione peered over, first at Ron and Pansy, and then at Lavender, and Draco was surprised to see that she was concealing a faint smile. “They’ll muddle through it,” she said with confidence. “Pansy and I exchanged letters over Christmas--she admitted her crush to me, and said she has no idea how to handle it since he’s seeing Lavender.” 

She shrugged, giving Draco a bemused look. “I’m attempting to advise her to be patient, since _obviously_ Lavender is not going to last forever with Ron, but...that’s far easier said than done for anyone.” Hermione’s eyes softened a bit. “Feelings are complicated.”

Draco was highly pleased to hear that Pansy was turning to Hermione for friendship and comfort, but he couldn’t help also being amused about Pansy’s predicament. It was his duty as her best mate, after all. And if she’d confided in Hermione, that meant she was one step closer to coming to terms with fancying Ron at all. He could feel substantially less badly for taking the mickey out of her over it.

It was a conscious choice not to lock onto the way Hermione’s eyes and voice shifted when she talked about _feelings_ ; perhaps Draco was a bit more hypocritical than he’d ever admit to, making fun of Pansy for her crush. 

For the moment, Draco merely laughed along with Hermione over the whole matter, enjoying just how beautiful she looked when she smiled so sincerely.

A shadow crossed by their table, and Draco’s laughter died as he glanced up to find Crabbe shuffling past their table, eyeing Hermione with disgust as he headed to where Seamus, Dean, and Goyle were already working on their respective team assignments. “Mind that you bathe before coming back to the Slytherin dorms, Malfoy,” he said, giving Hermione a look of pure disdain. “You shouldn’t bring that Mudblood stink down there.”

It caused Draco almost the same degree and intensity of pain as receiving the sodding Dark Mark had; but he forced himself to smirk, even let out a tense little bark of laughter, nodding at Crabbe while Hermione just glared at the other Slytherin. Crabbe actually appeared to buy it, shooting Draco the closest to an approving look that he’d seen on the bulky boy’s face in two years--at least when directed at him.

Draco felt sick to his stomach as his forced laughter died, and Crabbe continued on his way.

As soon as Crabbe was out of hearing, Draco reached out to slide his hand underneath the opened covers of his and Hermione’s textbooks, finding her clenched fingers beneath them. Hermione’s eyes leapt to his in surprise. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered, wary even if Crabbe was no longer close enough to risk him eavesdropping. “Don’t...try not to let him scare you. He’s just a big fucking bully.”

Her return smile was blinding in contrast to the pain that Crabbe’s constant cruelty had painted across her face. They both refocused on the chapter that they were reviewing, but neither moved to release the other’s hand. Draco didn’t even feel an inkling of desire to do so.

Someone else approached the table, and Draco looked up to find his class- and Housemate, Daphne Greengrass coming up to the table. She held out a folded note to him. “From Professor Dumbledore,” she explained, and Draco nodded, setting down his quill to accept the parchment with the hand not still curled around Hermione’s out of sight.

As Daphne walked away again, Hermione watched her go, looking thoughtful. “She doesn’t seem too hostile towards me. I’ve never spoken to her, but...well, that’s rather refreshing.”

Draco merely smiled, finally--grudgingly--withdrawing his hand in order to unfold the note, breaking the wax seal bearing Dumbledore’s crest. 

_Draco,_

_If it is possible, please come to my office this evening for our next meeting. I do apologize for the spontaneity of this, but I believe it’s best to press forward as swiftly as we can manage._

_~A.D._

“Dumbledore?” Hermione asked, softly enough to almost be inaudible. At Draco’s nod, she looked a touch more excited. “Go on, then--go grab something to eat and then head his way. I can handle the remainder of the note-taking we mapped out for today. What you’re doing with Dumbledore is too vital to skip a single session.”

Somehow, it was the fact that she also showed concern for his getting supper, and for their carefully planned-out homework schedule, that made Draco simply grin at her as he gathered his things and rose to go. Only Hermione Granger could simultaneously be a soldier in a war of this magnitude, a top-of-her-class student, and a caring and attentive friend all in the same breath.

Once he was fed and had made his way up to Dumbledore’s study, he entered at the Headmaster’s invitation to find the older wizard tired, but visibly energized. His hand was still blackened and terrible-looking, but he appeared not to mind it anymore.

First, they made quick work of exchanging updates; Draco reported that he was making progress fulfilling Voldemort’s orders, which meant that the Dark Lord was pleased with him and with the general state of things at Hogwarts. Dumbledore told him, with thinly-concealed weariness, that the Ministry was beginning to flail a little as it continued trying to convince the wizarding community that they had everything under control.

“They’re arresting innocent people as Death Eaters left and right,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head wearily. “Every move they make really just bungles things up further, as they try to appear firmly in control.” The Headmaster sighed. “I’m afraid that Scrimgeour and I are...rather at odds with one another, as a result.”

Draco frowned. “Is he...I mean, if he doing anything right? Or just making it all worse?”

Dumbledore chuckled, though it didn’t sound terribly amused. “Some of both. There are competent persons in the Ministry--particularly in the Auror Department, as you know. And they can occasionally guide him in wiser directions, or make things happen under the radar in order to prevent real damage. But as an individual...our new Minister is trying too hard with too few truly beneficial resources. Lord Voldemort is cunning in dismantling our government from the ground up.”

Well, that certainly sounded dire. Draco rubbed his forehead, feeling as if there was too much information being crammed into his skull. “In the spirit up updates,” he remarked, unsure if it mattered but preferring to make Dumbledore aware of everything. “The night before Christmas hols began, there was an incident--Ron and Hermione had a run-in with Crabbe and Goyle, from my House.”

“Professor Snape informed me,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Mr. Goyle was given one detention, since returning for the spring, and Mr. Crabbe’s continued animosity led to one detention turning into several. Severus is...attempting to get through to him.” He raised his bushy eyebrows. “What is it about that encounter that troubles you, Draco?”

“Well...the thing is, ever since I...changed sides, or whatever, beginning of last year, my dynamic with Crabbe has deteriorated badly,” Draco tried to explain, picking through his thoughts carefully. “I mean, it was hardly ever actually _friendship_ , but still. It was functional, ish, our first four years. And now, I mean--I don’t exactly miss him being around, but there’s definitely something off with Crabbe. He constantly either attacks or provokes the DA members, or he makes these vague, threatening remarks. And he’s clearly just _reveling_ in the prospect of Voldemort taking power and changing everything.”

The Headmaster considered all of this for a moment, and then nodded. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me, Draco. I urge you to be cautious around Crabbe, then, until we can better determine how much of a threat he poses. Your safety is a first priority.” Draco nodded wordlessly in agreement.

“Well, then, with all that covered,” Dumbledore said, reaching into his robes and withdrawing two more vials of clear, swirling mist-like substance. “We have to memories to examine this evening.”

“Whose are they?” Draco asked with interest, rising along with the Headmaster to approach the Pensieve on its pedestal. 

“You shall see shortly. Both are familiar individuals. So,” Dumbledore said in a ringing voice. “This evening we continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we last left poised on the threshold of his years at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school. 

“Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his secondhand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head,” continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. 

Draco had a flash of memory, so vivid that for a hot moment, it felt real again. Of bring eleven years old, dressed in his brand new robes, being called forward to be Sorted, and how the Sorting Hat had just scarcely touched him before it declared him a Slytherin. How proud he had been, to be Sorted to the House that almost his entire family had occupied...and secretly how relieved he was to know he was going there too. The fear he had felt moments before that had been so palpital that he nearly fainted, not wanting to think about his father’s reaction if Draco had been Sorted elsewhere.

“How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House could talk to snakes, I do not know—perhaps that very evening,” Dumbledore went on, bringing Draco’s attention back to the present moment. “The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance. However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. He seemed polite, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him.” 

“Didn’t you tell them, sir, what he’d been like when you met him at the orphanage?” Draco asked curiously. 

“No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance.” Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Draco, who had opened his mouth to speak. 

“But you didn’t really trust him, sir, did you? You seemed to understand that something was off about him from the moment you met him, in the orphanage.” 

“Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy,” Dumbledore confirmed. “I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues. 

“As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts. Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime. 

“I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, placing his withered hand on the Pensieve. “Few who knew him then are prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few who could be tricked into speaking, after searching old records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike.

“Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an orphanage and naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Voldemort, and began his investigations into his previously despised mother’s family—the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death. 

“All he had to go upon was the single name ‘Marvolo,’ which he knew from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother’s father’s name. Finally, after painstaking research, through old books of Wizarding families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin’s surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Draco, if you will stand...” 

Dumbledore rose, and Draco saw that he was once more holding a small crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory. “I was very lucky to collect this,” the Headmaster murmured, as he poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. “As you will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?” 

Draco stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until his face sank through the surface of the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling through nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness. 

It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere that Draco had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown, Draco could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the fire, and Draco wondered for a moment whether he was dead. 

But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left. 

The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy who Draco recognized at once, despite how violently different he looked from Draco’s present—the teenage Voldemort. He was tall, dark-haired, and handsome, almost the spitting image of his Muggle father from Bob Ogden’s memory, years before. He was so handsome at first glance that Draco would have found him attractive, if not for the cold dark eyes that pierced through the dim lighting.

Riddle's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor. “ _You_ !” he bellowed. “ _You_!” And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft. 

“ _Stop_.” Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. This time, with Draco prepared for the language, he finally didn’t jump when he heard it, though Riddle’s voice remained the same, cold and frightening; the Parseltongue didn’t help, not with how the hissing and spitting would have sounded to someone who couldn’t speak it. 

At least Draco understood now why Harry Potter had been nearly shunned by the entire school when he accidentally spoke it in their second year, when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. It sounded creepy to the untrained ear, menacing almost.

The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. 

The man broke it. “ _You speak it_?” 

“ _Yes, I speak it_ ,” Riddle replied. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Draco could not help but feel a resentful admiration for Riddle’s complete lack of fear. His face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment. “Where is Marvolo?” he asked the man, his tone cold and indifferent as he examined the deplorable state of the cottage. 

“Dead,” the other answered. “Died years ago, didn’t he?” 

Riddle frowned. “Who are you, then?” 

“I’m Morfin, ain’t I?

“Marvolo’s son?” 

“‘Course I am, then...” Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Draco saw that he wore Marvolo’s black-stoned ring on his right hand. “I thought you was that Muggle,” Morfin whispered. “You look mighty like that Muggle.” 

“ _What_ Muggle?” Riddle asked sharply. 

“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” Morfin snapped back, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. “You look right like him. Riddle. But he’s older now, in ‘e? He’s older’n you, now I think on it...” Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support. “He come back, see,” he added stupidly. 

Riddle was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities, but at those words he stilled. He moved a little closer, and his voice was deadly soft as he said, “Riddle came back?” 

“Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” Morfin said, spitting on the floor again. “Robbed us, mind, before she ran off, where’s the locket, eh, where’s Slytherin’s locket?” 

Riddle did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, “Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who’re you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It’s over, innit...It’s over...” He looked away, staggering slightly, and Riddle moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort’s lamp and Morfin’s candle, extinguishing everything.

Dumbledore’s fingers closed tightly around Draco’s arm, and they were soaring back into the present again. 

The soft golden light in Dumbledore’s office seemed to dazzle Draco’s eyes after that impenetrable darkness. “Is that all?” Draco asked, bewildered. “Why did it go dark, what happened?” 

“Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward,” Dumbledore replied, gesturing for Draco to resume his seat. “When he awoke the next morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo’s ring had gone. Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big house: Tom Riddle Senior, and his mother and father.

“The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra curse does not usually leave any sign of damage...the exception, of course, having been our young Harry Potter” Dumbledore added, sighing softly.. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard’s murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the murdered people.

“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his father’s ring had disappeared. ‘He’ll kill me for losing it,’ he told his captors over and over again. ‘He’ll kill me for losing his ring.’ And that, apparently, was all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo’s last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls.” 

“So Riddle stole Morfin’s wand and used it?” Draco clarified, sitting up straight in his armchair. 

“That’s right,” Dumbledore confirmed. “We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to ‘the big house over the way.’ There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle’s mind, laid Morfin’s wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient ring he wore, and departed.” 

“And Morfin never realized he hadn’t done it?” 

“Never,” Dumbledore replied. “He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession.” 

“But he had this real memory in him all the time,” Draco said, confused how the long-dead man could possess both the real and false recollections, and not know it.

“Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him,” Dumbledore explained, “and why should anybody delve further into Morfin’s mind when he had already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I could about Voldemort’s past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin’s release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died.” 

“But how come the Ministry didn’t realize that Riddle had done all that to Morfin in the first place?” Draco asked, frowning. “He was underage at the time, wasn’t he? I thought they could detect underage magic!”

“You are quite right—they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator. After all, young witches and wizards constantly experience outbursts of magic as they grow up, which doesn’t register as illegal due to being in their parents’ homes--or is monitored for their safety by the Ministry, if it is a Muggleborn child in a on-magical household.” 

“So if you’re underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard’s house, the Ministry won’t know?” Draco hadn’t known that. But the explanation made sense; of course he’d never gotten in trouble with the Ministry when he’d done accidental magic as a boy, before Hogwarts.

“They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic,” Dumbledore clarified, smiling slightly at the look of indignation that this put on Draco’s face. “They rely on witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring’s obedience while within their walls, and to ensure that they do no harm.”

“Well, that’s rubbish,” Draco groused. “Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin--that ought to merit some changes in legislation.”

“I agree,” Dumbledore said, smiling sadly. “And perhaps someday, that will be managed. Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want you to see this other memory before we part...”

Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal vial, and Draco fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most important one he had collected. He noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad? “This will not take long,” Dumbledore told him, when he had finally emptied the vial. “We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then...” 

And Draco fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man he recognized at once: it was a much younger Horace Slughorn. 

Draco was so used to him bald, as he was now, that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, less massive than it was these days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as round as the Slughorn Draco knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of strain. 

His little feet resting upon a velvet pouf, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystallized pineapple. Draco looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn’s office, decorated not too differently from how it was now, decades later. 

Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Draco recognized Tom Riddle at once. His was the most handsome face in the lot, and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt of revulsion, Draco saw that he was wearing Marvolo’s gold-and-black ring. He had already killed his father, and yet there he sat, confident and insolent and unrepentant of the murder.

“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?” Riddle asked, watching Slughorn.

“Tom, Tom, even if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” Slughorn replied, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.” Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. “What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favorite—”

As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Draco could see nothing but the face of Dumbledore still standing beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly, “You’ll go wrong, boy, mark my words.”

The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared, and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. 

Bewildered, Draco looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven o’clock. “Good gracious, is it that time already?” Slughorn cried. “You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.” Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. 

Riddle, however, stayed behind. Draco could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn. “Look sharp, Tom,” Slughorn said, turning around and finding him still present. “You don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a Prefect...” Draco curled his lip; of course the prick had been a Prefect. It seemed he had had all but Dumbledore utterly entranced by his charismatic facade.

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away...” 

“Sir, I wondered what you know about...about Horcruxes?” 

And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled the room so that Draco could not see Slughorn or Riddle at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice boomed out again, just as it had done before. “I don’t know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn’t tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!” 

“Well, that’s that,” Dumbledore remarked placidly from beside Draco. “Time for us to go.” And Draco’s feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore’s desk. 

“That’s all there is?” Draco asked blankly. Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Riddle had asked a question and failed to get an answer. 

“As you might have noticed,” Dumbledore replied, reseating himself behind his desk, “that memory has been tampered with.” 

“Tampered with?” Draco repeated, sitting back down too. “Is that--I didn’t know that that was possible, you can tamper with your own memories?”

“Certainly,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections of the conversation that he had with young Riddle, that night.” 

“But why would he do that?” Draco asked, frowning. “And why do it to a memory that you asked for, doesn’t he want to help us?” 

“Indeed, he does, but...I believe that he is ashamed of what he remembers,” Dumbledore replied. “He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations. 

“And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Draco.” The teenager blinked, surprised. “It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information of all.” 

Draco continued to stare at him. “But surely, sir,” he said slowly, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, “you don’t need me—you could use Legilimency...or Veritaserum...” 

“Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who would be expecting both,” Dumbledore countered. “He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection. No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It is most important that we secure the true memory, Draco...How important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck...and good night to you.” 

A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Draco got to his feet quickly. “Good night, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Also it's Minx's birthday and they're a happy camper today!)


	20. All Colors Fade to Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes, the answer did not have to be complicated. Sometimes there were shortcuts that were perfectly safe--and perhaps even more effective than the traditional approach to whatever crisis one was addressing."

Hunched over a mess of notes and textbooks at their library table--the spring term  _ was _ progressing after all, and they couldn’t neglect their actual Transfiguration assignment completely--Draco filled Ron, Hermione, and Pansy in on the contents of the most recent memories. Theo joined them whenever he and Neville weren’t doing their own work; but the group had agreed that they couldn’t ask Neville to be privy to all of this, so Draco and Pansy often just had to catch Theo up on the details afterwards.

Unsurprisingly, the girls understood Draco’s worry over Dumbledore requiring him to get the true memory before they could continue, while Ron did not. “He loves you,” was his argument, his eyebrows raised. “Won’t refuse you anything, will he? Not one of his two top Potions students. Just hang back after class this afternoon and ask him.” 

Draco sighed, because he had to agree with Dumbledore--if it was going to be that simple, then the Headmaster would have had the intact memory from the get-go. Hermione shared his gloomier view. “Professor Slughorn must be really determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore himself couldn’t get it out of him,” she told Ron, echoing Draco’s thoughts. “Horcruxes... Horcruxes... I’ve never even heard of them...” 

“You haven’t?” Draco was disappointed, though not terribly surprised by that; he had hoped that Hermione might at least recognize the word vaguely, given that she’d basically read every textbook ever published.

“They must be really advanced Dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them?” Hermione went on, tapping the end of her quill on her parchment and leaving ink splotches dangerously close to her notes. Draco gently nudged her wrist, guiding her hand to the margins in order to protect their academic work from Hermione’s strategizing. “I think it’s going to be difficult to get the information, Draco, you’ll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a careful plan...”

“Mm, hadn’t thought of that,” he deadpanned, and Hermione refocused, blinking a little before realizing that he was teasing her. She wrinkled her nose at him, then looked back at her notes, starting at the mess of ink she’d left.

“Maybe we have to try the Restricted Section,” Pansy offered, though even mentioning it had a crease appearing between her brows. Draco knew where her mind went immediately; it was nearly impossible for a Slytherin to get books from behind those doors without a damned compelling reason. The suspicion that forever clouded their House was really quite inconvenient for the honest student.

“I’ll look into that,” Hermione confirmed, seemingly not noticing the look that Draco and Pansy traded. “Can’t hurt to try, after all.”

In their next class with Slughorn, he gave them a bit of a twist on the in-class assignment. “Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott’s Third Law...who can tell me—? Miss Granger can, of course!” 

Hermione lowered her hand, smiling as she promptly recited: “Golpalott’s Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components.” 

“Precisely!” Slughorn beamed. “Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott’s Third Law as true...” Draco shared Hermione’s lack of issue with following Slughorn as he continued, though he saw how quickly the majority of their classmates’ gazes glazed over with confusion. Really, it was a wonder any of these people ever finished their school years with passing grades.

“...which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion’s ingredients by Scarpin’s Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process, transform these disparate elements—” 

Ron was sitting beside Hermione with his mouth half open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Draco raised his eyebrows at him, then caught Hermione’s eye; she gave the tiniest shrug and head shake. Draco supposed she was far too used to having to keep her best friend afloat to try and rouse him anymore. 

“...and so,” Slughorn finished, “I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don’t forget your protective gloves!” 

Hermione had left her stool and was halfway towards Siughorn’s desk before the rest of the class had realized it was time to move, and by the time Draco, Ron and Pansy returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it. As Ron followed suit, she began speaking quietly to him, though Draco noticed that she only had to verbalize the instructions she was giving her Housemate; whenever Hermione turned her attention to her own cauldron, she masterfully did her work using non-verbal magic. She really was extraordinary.

Examining the contents of the phial he had grabbed, Draco recognized the poison at once. The antidote would not be terribly difficult. But Draco wasn’t just an excellent Potions student; he had been raised learning from the most talented Potions master he’d ever met.

Opting to go with the idea that had sprung into his mind--it was quick, and impossibly snarky, which he felt suited him perfectly--Draco instead spent the class period very carefully and discreetly guiding Ron along with Hermione. He helped Pansy as needed, as well, but she was a bit less hopeless with Potions than Ron was, and managed well enough on her own just by listening to them whenever they offered gentle corrections.

By the end of the period, predictably, Hermione’s cauldron was bubbling with a nearly-complete antidote that was giving off a faint odor of flowers. Ron’s cauldron contained something that was at least passable, grade-wise, and Pansy’s was decent-enough quality.

Slughorn made his way around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, but several were far enough along to be considered real antidotes--if weak ones. Draco slipped away from the table over to the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at the very back, a small card box on which had been scribbled the word  _ Bezoars _ . 

Reaching their table last, Slughorn circled it, nodding approvingly at Pansy and Ron, and praising Hermione profusely as she smiled proudly. “And you, Draco,” Slughorn said, turning at last to the blonde. “What have you got to show me?” 

Draco held up his hand, the bezoar sitting innocently in his palm. Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds; then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You’ve got a nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, you are just like your godfather... well, I can’t fault you... a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions! Clever, and cheeky...”

As he moved on, still chortling, Draco glanced at Hermione, not wanting her to be offended by his joke. But eve she looked rather amused. “It’s not cheating,” she confirmed, clearly reading his mind. “Though I imagine you’re lucky that he  _ does _ like you so much, most of us wouldn’t have gotten away with that.” Draco just grinned, knowing she wasn’t wrong.

He made a mental note to tell Severus about it the next time they were alone. His godfather had taught him about bezoars as a child; he had wanted to make certain that Draco understood that sometimes, the answer did not have to be complicated. Sometimes there were shortcuts that were perfectly safe--and perhaps even more effective than the traditional approach to whatever crisis one was addressing.

Their homework was unusually light that evening, and Draco knew that he needed to take advantage of that rare opportunity. He didn’t strictly want to give the Cabinet any of his free time--he’d infinitely prefer to be in the library with the others until Madam Pince shooed them out--but if he made no progress at all, then the consequences back at the Manor would be far uglier than the discomfort of having to hide away in the Room of Requirement doing a task that he loathed.

If it was one thing that Draco was finding out about Vanishing Cabinets as a whole, it was that they were incredibly difficult to repair once broken. He heard the story, how Peeves destroyed this one by dropping it from a great height, and using several strong Mending Charms had managed to fit the splintered wood and bring it back to its former aesthetic glory, but getting the actual charm that made it work was...difficult.

Staring up at the Cabinet for a long moment, Draco let out a breath, before grabbing the door and pulling it open. Carefully, he set an apple in the middle of the Cabinet’s floor, then shut the door slowly, pressing his hand against the wood and closing his eyes. “Harmonia Nectere Passus,” he whispered, feeling the wood begin to warm beneath his fingers. It happened more often now, the spell trying in vain to reactivate the Cabinet, but he wasn’t holding out a lot of hope for it this round. “Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

After a pause, he opened the Cabinet door, only to stare with some surprise at finding the apple was now gone. That had never happened before, despite multiple attempts. But was it enough? Closing the door again, he murmured the spell once more, waited a few moments, then opened the door again, finding the apple had returned. But now, there was a large, obvious bite mark.

Draco swallowed nervously, reaching in to pick up the apple and stare at it. The Cabinet’s only twin was at Borgin and Burke’s. There was no way someone could randomly open the twin at the shop, not with Draco’s orders to keep it hidden, and allowing the Death Eaters to check on it every once in a while. Did that mean…?

The flutter of wings caught his attention, and he looked up, finding a small songbird that had somehow made its way into the Room. It was quite pretty, like a canary, except a bit more white than yellow, and it chirped at Draco curiously. Reaching up, he allowed the bird to land on his fingers, and he set the apple aside to give the bird’s chest a little scratch with his finger. 

Then, a little uncertainly, he set the bird inside of the Cabinet, letting it hop off of his hand and in a small circle as if exploring the place.

Carefully, so as to not spook the bird, Draco shut the door again and murmured the spell. The chattering of the bird could still be heard within, so he inhaled, and said the spell again, only to freeze when the sound got abruptly got off. After a long few seconds, Draco pulled the door open again, only to stare uncomprehendingly at the little bird, now lying at the bottom of the Cabinet, far too still for his liking.

“Oh…” The Room suddenly felt cold, and his hands were shaking as he reached in, picking up the delicate little creature. “Oh, no… Oh no, oh no, don't be dead, please don’t be dead…”

But there was no movement. No breathing that he could feel, no frantic little heartbeat that all small birds seemed to have. Even the body had become too cold too fast, as if the power of the Vanishing Cabinet suffocated the bird within seconds, crushing its lungs and leaving it lifeless. 

Clearly, the Cabinet was still too broken to work properly, but that didn’t stop the overwhelming tidal wave of emotions that crashed over Draco. He sank to his knees as he held the little bird to his chest, tears he couldn’t control welling into his eyes and spilling down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered shakily. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

How could any of the Death Eaters stand this feeling? How could they kill without a second thought or remorse? Without even having to try, Draco’s mind conjured up the mental image of Harry Potter, fourteen years old and terrified, being tortured by Voldemort as the surrounding Death Eaters laughed. Like it was all some kind of game, before he was killed, his body Transfigured into his own glasses, now resting on the mantle in Malfoy Manor. 

Harry had died, afraid and alone, and they had laughed… Draco’s own father had  _ laughed… _

“I’m so sorry!” Whether Draco was apologizing to the dead bird, or to the ghost of Harry’s memory, he wasn’t entirely sure anymore.

* * * 

In the library the next evening, Hermione was highly irritated at the library as a whole. She had spent her free periods scouring the Restricted Section, and had only found one sentence in the entire place that even mentioned the word Horcruxes: “Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction”....honestly, why even mention it, then?”

Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off the headache that hadn’t gone away since he’d stopped weeping over the bird, the night before. His mind was echoing with the chilling sound of fluttering wings stopping, a fragile little life snuffed out so bloody pointlessly. 

Theo was with them just this once; Neville was working on something for Professor Sprout. Draco looked at his Housemates tiredly. “Have you--do either of you have  _ any _ memories of ever hearing it mentioned? We all grew up in upper-class pureblood culture, all our houses had Dark artifacts around...” But they both just shook their heads, as lost as he was. Whatever Horcruxes were, there was no information on them available to students.

The constant tension was broken by their first weekend of Apparation lessons. When the Slytherins arrived in the Great Hall, they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain was lashing against the high windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout, and a small wizard whom Draco assumed was the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. Draco would have liked to do this with Ron and Hermione, but Crabbe and Goyle had attended as well, forcing them to remain across the Hall from their friends.

The Ministry wizard was oddly colorless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a single gust of wind might blow him away. Draco wondered whether constant disappearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish. 

“Good morning,” the Ministry wizard began, when all the students had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time, so that many of you may be ready to pass on your first attempt.”

Despite the excitement that all of the sixth years had felt over this, nobody managed to Apparate successfully on that first day. This was discouraging even if Twycross insisted that that was to be expected. The closest that anyone came was Susan Bones, who  _ did _ technically Apparate--but she splinched her left leg in the process, to the horror of everyone gathered. The professors tended to her swiftly, and Twycross called the session until the next weekend.

The snow melted around the school as March approached, replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. 

On the first weekend of the month, a Hogsmeade weekend was cancelled; Draco presumed it was related to Katie’s accident from before Christmas. She was still in St. Mungo’s, and it cast a gloomy pall over the prospect of students being permitted into the village unsupervised. The Prophet had also reported several more missing persons, some of whom were Hogwarts students. It reminded Draco unpleasantly of the constant atmosphere of distrust and terror that had filled the castle during their second year, never knowing when Slytherin’s Heir was going to attack someone else.

He was in the Common Room staring blankly through the windows--the stormy weather made the Black Lake churn, underwater plants waving eerily in the murky gloom and most of the lake’s inhabitants hunkering down in the depths, away from the turbulence--when Theo found him. The brunette placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, stirring Draco from his thoughts.

“You’ve been summoned to the Hospital Wing,” he told Draco softly, who frowned at the words. “Pans is there, she’ll explain. She’s fine, just--go, they asked for you specifically.” Bewildered, Draco nodded and rose, hurrying off as Theo tidied up his homework for him.

Entering the Hospital Wing, Draco was shocked to find Pansy sitting beside one of the beds; it was Ron lying there, unconscious, pale enough to look deathly. Pansy was clutching one of his hands in both of hers, and barely shifted to even look up when Draco appeared, approaching the odd little scene with furrowed brows.

Hermione was there as well, of course. When Draco reached her side, she swallowed, her voice sounding rough as if she had been crying. “Ron and me, we were doing homework in our common room,” she told him, without being prompted. “I had this box of Cauldron Cakes, they’d been left for me on Valentine’s Day--no note, just my name on the card--and I hadn’t bothered touching them, not a huge fan, but Ron had one.” She swallowed again, hugging herself as she stared at Ron’s slack face. “It seems that they were laced with a love potion.”

Draco blinked, processing that. “...alright,” he said slowly. “But...how exactly did that result in the Hospital Wing? Even if the potion was out-of-date, it wouldn’t be fatal. Just--wait, who was it? Was Ron instantly obsessed with someone?” Dire though the situation was, if Ron was now comatose in a hospital bed, Draco had to admit that it would likely have been hilarious to see the redhead losing his mind over someone he’d probably never looked twice at before.

Hermione’s cheeks turned red, but she shook her head and focused on his first question, ignoring the follow-up. “Obviously I didn’t have the means of making an antidote to a strong love potion there in our common room, so I dragged him off to Slughorn’s office to beg for help. Ron was barely able to walk, he was so out of it. I was scared.”

That sobered Draco a litte, and he nodded sympathetically. “That was wise. I’m sure Slughorn understood.”

“He did.” Hermione sighed. “Once we had Ron sorted out and back to himself...Professor Slughorn offered us some mead. It’s Ron’s birthday, I...we just wanted to celebrate a little.” She shuddered. “Ron took one sip and then...then he collapsed. He was foaming at the mouth and jerking about wildly, his eyes rolled back...”

“Poisoned?” Draco asked, disbelieving. “I--what?”

Hermione hugged herself tighter. “I remembered class and--and grabbed a bezoar from Slughorn’s ingredient box and forced it down Ron’s throat. He’s...he’s going to be okay, just...he’ll need to be in here for a bit to recover.”

Draco nodded slowly. Then he glanced at Pansy, his confusion returning. Hermione saw the question in his face that he didn’t want his best friend to overhear him asking; why was she there at Ron’s bedside, instead of Lavender? Had Lavender even been told?

For the first time, Hermione almost smiled. She unfolded her arms and placed her hand on his elbow, guiding him a little further away from the bed so that Pansy wouldn’t hear her. “Oh, Lavender was here. She came tearing in the instant that Madam Pomfrey had someone go tell her--I asked her to, I mean....seemed right--but.” 

Hermione was smirking just a little, now. “Ah, well...Ron began mumbling in his sleep.” She actually giggled. “He...he started saying Pansy’s name. Several times. Lavender didn’t...take that well.”

Despite the circumstances, Draco had to grin as well. He muffled his laughter behind his hand, glancing back at Pansy, who clearly had eyes only for Ron. “Oh, Merlin, I seriously hope he remembers this when he wakes up.”

They remained at Ron’s bedside until Madam Pomfrey had to order them to go, insisting that they spend the night in their own dorms rather than huddled around Ron in uncomfortable chairs. Until she banished them, Pansy remained unmoving where she was, and Draco and Hermione drew chairs up on the other side of Ron’s bed.

At some point, without really registering that it was happening, their hands found each other between their chairs. They only let go, eventually, when they finally had to leave the hospital wing for bed.

* * *  


Ron had to spend a week in the hospital wing, taking essence of rue as his body recovered from the near-death experience. Pansy more permanently joined Draco and Hermione at their table in the library in his absence, and the three of them mulled over why on the mead that Slughorn had could have been poisoned. Or who it had been intended to target.

“The poison was in the drink itself, obviously,” Pansy said quietly, slowly drawing mindless circles in the margins of her notes. “Right?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, as pale as the Slytherin girl was. Draco knew that they were both reeling badly from this entire mess, though for different reasons. Hermione wasn’t doing very well with neatly witnessing her best friend die in front of her. “Slughorn poured it out—” 

“Would he have been able to slip something into Ron’s glass without you seeing?” Draco looked at Pansy in surprise, stunned that she would imply that Slughorn himself had intended the poisoning.

“Probably,” Hermione hedged, “I mean, I was sort of distracted by the whole of the love potion thing, but...why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?” She looked at Draco as she asked the question, and he nodded his agreement. It made absolutely no sense for that to be the case; and even if somehow Slughorn did want Ron dead, it was a little too random to have happened this way.

“I don’t know,” Pansy said tiredly. “You don’t think he could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning to get you?” 

“That makes no sense either,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “Unless you think Slughorn’s a Death Eater?”

“He could be under the Imperius Curse,” Draco pointed out, thinking of Katie’s blank face when she had left the Three Broomsticks with the package containing the cursed necklace. Madam Rosmerta, as well; he was nearly certain that whoever had arranged the necklace attack had used the bartender to get the parcel into Katie’s hands. “Or he could be innocent, of course.” 

“The poison could have been in the bottle, in which case it was probably meant for Slughorn himself,” Hermione agreed, pressing one hand to her forehead as if she, too, now had a growing headache. Dumbledore did say that Voldemort would want Slughorn on his side...and Slughorn was in hiding for a year before he came to Hogwarts. So this is the first place he’s been out in the open and traceable."

Draco contemplated that, as well as the memory that he was trying to extract from Slughorn. “Then again,” Hermione went on, suddenly frowning, “Slughorn actually told Ron and me that he had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas.”

“So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore?” Pansy asked, looking like this was the most plausible theory so far, in her opinion. 

“Perhaps. But if so, then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,” Hermione sighed, sounding as though she had a bad head cold. “Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for himself.” She shuddered. “Oh, this is just so disturbing. If it’s all just one person--then whatever they’re trying to accomplish, they don’t care who they hurt while doing it.”

Ginny appeared in the library doorway, scanning the room until she spotted them. Hurrying over, she wrapped her around Hermione in a tight hug, startling the older girl. 

“My parents are here now,” she reported, moving around to sink into the chair that Ron would normally occupy, beside Pansy. “Fred and George, too. They all Floo’ed in together. They’re upstairs with Ron.” She gave Hermione a watery smile. “They’re all rather overwhelmed with gratitude towards you right now, for saving him. Professor Slughorn came by--told them that he felt so ashamed, because he said he froze up when it happened. That your quick thinking is why Ron’s alive.”

Hermione blushed red, looking unsure how to feel. “I mean--that’s, they don’t--of course I did it--” Ginny reached out to pat her hand, and Hermione subsided, still squirming with embarrassment at the love she was receiving.

“Unfortunately, him having to stay in hospital means he’s going to miss a lot of Quidditch,” Ginny went on, and Draco had to smile. Leave it to the one Weasley girl to compartmentalize her emotions that way. Her brother was alive, he was going to be fine, so it was time to be irritated about the consequences of his current state. “And sod it, that means that bloody Cormac McLaggen is our temporary Keeper. Ugh.”

Hermione made a tiny sound at that, but waved her hand when Draco looked at her curiously. “That won’t be the worst thing, will it?” she asked Ginny, though she didn’t sound like she believed her own words. “I mean...he was technically second-best after Ron, right?”

“I s’pose,” Ginny sighed. “Angelina’s brassed off about it, I think we all are.” Then she snorted. “And on top of that, just wait till you come back to the Tower--Lavender Brown is literally sulking about the common room at all hours.” Ginny smirked, giving Pansy a sidelong look that made the Slytherin girl huff. “Seems she’s thoroughly displeased about Ron basically chucking her in his sleep. And for a Slytherin, no less.”

“He didn’t,” Pansy started to protest, but she stopped when Draco gave her a pointed look. “Well, fine, yeah, he dumped her, but we’re not--he’s been bloody unconscious, for Merlin’s sake. We can’t just  _ assume _ that he’ll want to date me now.” As the other three continued to just smile at her knowingly, Pansy groaned and refocused on her notes. “Shut up.”

A fifth person approached the table, and they looked up to find Luna smiling at them serenely before offering Draco a rolled sheet of parchment. “Here you are, Draco. From Professor Dumbledore.” As Draco unrolled the letter, the Ravenclaw girl looked at Ginny with wide eyes. “Is Ronald doing better?”

“He is,” Ginny assured her. “He’s going to be right as rain. Thanks, Luna.” She took the hand that Luna offered her, squeezing her fingers gratefully.

Pansy looked up again, smiling at Luna. “By the way, Lovegood,  _ loved _ your commentary on the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff match. You were bloody hilarious, and spot-on. Smith absolutely earned every zinger.”

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” Luna asked, not sounding upset in the slightest by the prospect of being mocked. “Everyone else says I was dreadful.” 

“No, I’m absolutely serious!” Pansy assured her, grinning. “I can’t remember ever enjoying commentary more--even when it was Lee Jordan, who was definitely funny, too. What is that, by the way?” she added, nodding at an onion-like object that was hanging from a leather cord around Luna’s neck. 

“Oh, it’s a Gurdyroot,” she replied, taking it off of her neck and holding it out for them to see clearly. “You can keep it if you like, I’ve got a few of them. They’re really excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies.” With one last fond smile at each of the four, she walked away, leaving Pansy chuckling as she placed the Gurdyroot into her book bag at her feet.

“Is it Dumbledore?” Hermione asked Draco, who had read and re-rolled the note. He nodded, letting her take it and place it into her bag so that there was no risk of anyone finding it among Draco’s possessions.

“He wants to meet again tonight,” Draco confirmed. “Let’s wrap up some note-taking for Transfiguration, and then go get some food before I have to head up to his office.”

Across the library, Lavender entered with the Patil sisters. She spotted them all sitting together and stopped walking, looking at Pansy uncertainly for a moment and then at Hermione. As if their being together confirmed her fears, Lavender abruptly burst into tears, and turned to flee the library. Parvati and Padma looked bewildered, turning to follow her without seeming to realize what had upset her so dramatically.

Draco glanced over at Pansy with a raised eyebrow. His best friend merely shrugged, clearly struggling valiantly not to smirk as she returned her attention back to her essay outline.


	21. Blood on the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The following evening found them all back in the library, and he was able to give them an abridged summary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note from both authors: We know that the canon-heavy bits can be tiring. We promise we know. But we're about ten chapters ahead in prepped writing, and we can guarantee to you that the original content is so worth it all.
> 
> Note From Hardy: Listen, we swear, we know, the canon heavy bits can be a bit boring to read. And this is one of the most canon-heavy chapters we've got. But just a friendly reminder, the entire point to this story is that Draco REPLACES Harry. A LOT of the beginning will be similar to prepping Draco to kill Voldemort, in the way Harry was prepped to kill Voldemort, just minus the Horcrux bit. You can skip this chapter if you want to; you're not going to be missing anything important.

When Draco arrived at Dumbledore’s study, he was startled to find Professor Trelawney, of all people, standing in the open doorway. “Aha!” she cried, pointing dramatically at Draco as she blinked at him through her magnifying spectacles. Draco stopped moving forward, staring at the Divination professor with utter confusion. “So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!” 

“My dearest Sybill,” Dumbledore replied in a slightly exasperated voice. “There is no question of throwing you ‘unceremoniously’ from anywhere. But Mr. Malfoy and I do have an appointment, and I really don’t think there is any more to be said—” 

“Very well,” Professor Trelawney intoned, in a deeply wounded voice. “If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it...perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated...” 

She pushed past Draco and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway down, and Draco imagined that she had tripped over one of her trailing shawls. “Please close the door and sit down, Draco,” Dumbledore invited, sounding rather tired. 

Draco obeyed, watching the swirling pale colors on the surface of the Pensieve where it was now sitting in the center of Dumbledore’s desk, along with two more tiny crystal bottles full of glimmering memories. “Professor Trelawney still isn’t happy about Firenze teaching, then?” Draco guessed. 

“No,” Dumbledore confirmed wearily, “Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves--she has no idea of the danger she would be in, outside the castle. She does not know—and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her—that she has in fact made some genuine prophecies in her time.” 

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, “But never mind my staffing problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly—have you managed to complete the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?” 

“No,” Draco admitted, dropping his gaze a little sheepishly. He had spent a significant portion of every day worrying over the task, and had taken every opportunity when he was anywhere near Professor Slughorn to analyze the older wizard, trying to determine the best means of broaching the subject with him. “I’m still working on determining the likeliest place or time when he’d be willing to give it to me.”

Dumbledore regarded him intently for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. “Very well. I have no doubt in my mind, Draco, that you understand me when I tell you that Professor Slughorn’s accurate memory is the most crucial of all, and that we will be wasting our time from here on out without it.” 

Draco swallowed, and nodded firmly, raising his eyes to meet the Headmaster’s. “Yes, Professor Dumbledore. I’m sorry. I should have done more...I should have realized you wouldn’t have asked me to do it if it wasn’t that important.” 

“Thank you for saying that, Draco,” Dumbledore replied quietly. “May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There will be little point in our meeting after tonight until we have that memory.” 

“I’ll do it, sir, I’ll get it from him,” Draco promised resolutely. He would stop trying to over-calculate. When an opportunity presented itself, he would act on it. And if it took more than one attempt, well, then, so be it. This was vital, and Draco needed to make it work.

“Then we shall say no more about it just now,” Dumbledore said more kindly, “but continue with our story where we left off. You remember where that was?” 

“Yes, sir,” Draco said promptly. “Riddle killed his father and his grandparents and made it look as though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to Hogwarts and he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes.”

“Very good,” Dumbledore confirmed, nodding at the succinct summary. “Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of guesswork and speculation?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?” Again, Draco nodded. “But now, Draco,” Dumbledore continued, “now things become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the young man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could give us a full account of his life since he left Hogwarts. However, I have two last memories that I would like to share with you.” 

Dumbledore indicated the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the Pensieve. “I shall then be glad of your opinion as to whether the conclusions I have drawn from them seem likely.” The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this highly made Draco blush slightly, stunned and nervous, watching as Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the light and examined it. 

“I hope you are not tired of diving into other people’s memories, for they are curious recollections, these two,” Dumbledore went on. “This first one came from a very old house elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts. He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle--Prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. I know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes.” 

“At Borgin and Burkes?” Draco repeated, stunned and disbelieving. He tried to picture the attractive, charismatic young man from Morfin Gaunt’s memory, employed in that dark, grimy place, and the visual simply did not compute. Even knowing that Riddle had already delved into Dark Magic--he was a murderer before he had even finished school, after all--didn’t make it seem as if he would fit in at that gritty establishment. 

“At Borgin and Burkes,” Dumbledore repeated, nodding. “I think you will see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey’s memory. But this was not Voldemort’s first choice of job. Hardly anyone knew of it at the time—I was one of the few in whom the then-headmaster confided—but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher.”

“He wanted to stay here? Why?” Draco asked, more amazed still. “I mean, it was better than the orphanage he grew up in, certainly; but was he actually  _ happy _ here?”

“I believe that he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet,” Dumbledore replied. “Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to any person. Hogwarts was where he had been closest to feeling true happiness; the first and only place he had felt at home.” 

Draco supposed that that made sense, though he made the intentional choice not to let himself feel even a stirring of sympathy for the otherwise unattached Tom Riddle. After all that he had gone on to do, to become, his regrettable origins did not earn him any real pity.

“Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.” Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. “And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence over young witches and wizards. Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin to build himself an army.” 

“But he didn’t get the job, sir?” Draco clarified, seeing where this was heading.

“No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach.” 

“How did you feel about that, sir?” Draco asked curiously. “About Dippet inviting him to come back again later, not him asking to stay to begin with.” 

“I was deeply uneasy,” Dumbledore replied, which didn’t surprise Draco in the slightest. “I had advised Armando against the appointment that first time—I did not give the reasons that I am giving you, for Professor Dippet was very fond of young Riddle, and convinced of his honesty. But I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this school, and especially not in a position of power.” 

“Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?” Somehow, Draco knew the answer even before Dumbledore stated it, his gut clenching in forewarning even though the events being discussed had all happened decades ago. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years.” Draco’s eyes widened, remembering the beginning--the untampered-with portion--of Slughorn’s all-important memory. Teenage Tom Riddle had asked the Potions master if it was true that a Professor Merrythought was retiring, and Slughorn had deflected rather than answered him. 

Dumbledore continued. “So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff here who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop--and that shop, in particular. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes--which specializes, as you know, Draco, in objects with unusual and powerful properties.”

Draco grimaced. He wondered if the Vanishing Cabinet had been there when Riddle had been employed. Had Voldemort looked him in the eyes, listened to him outline his shaky plan to repair and link the Cupboards, and been able to visualize the ancient device in his mind from his days of working in the shop where it was homed?

“Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by Borgin and Burke, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this,” Dumbledore said, and Draco snorted a dark laugh.

“I’ll bet he was,” he muttered, unable to contain himself. 

“Well, quite,” Dumbledore said, with a faint smile at the teenager. “And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house elf, who worked for a very old, very wealthy witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith.” 

Professor Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand; the cork flew out, and he tipped the swirling memory into the Pensieve, saying as he did so, “After you, Draco.”

Draco got to his feet and bent once more over the rippling silver contents of the stone basin until his face touched them. He tumbled through dark nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. 

She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house elf Draco had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers. 

“Hurry up, Hokey!” Hepzibah said imperiously. “He said he’d come at four, it’s only a couple of minutes to and he’s never been late yet!” She tucked away her powder puff as the house elf straightened up. The top of the elf’s head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah’s chair, and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga. “How do I look?” Hepzibah asked, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror. 

“Lovely, madam,” Hokey squeaked promptly. Draco smirked a little, knowing that it had to be a part of Hokey’s servitude to give the desired answer to this question, rather than the truthful one, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely in his opinion. 

He didn’t know if any of the elves he’d been raised around had ever lied to his face--maybe, when he was tiny and wanted to be assured that he was guaranteed to be a professional Quidditch player someday--but he supposed it wasn’t so harmful for them to soothe their masters’ egos.

A tinkling doorbell rang, and both mistress and elf jumped. “Quick, quick, he’s here, Hokey!” Hepzibah cried, and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things. There were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a museum. 

The house elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man whom Draco had no difficulty whatsoever in recognizing as the young Lord Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked more handsome than ever. 

He picked his way through the cramped room with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah’s fat little hand, brushing it with his lips. “I brought you flowers,” he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere. 

“You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have!” Hepzibah squealed with delight, though Draco noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. “You do spoil this old lady, Tom...sit down, sit down...where’s Hokey? Ah...” 

The house elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her mistress’s elbow. “Help yourself, Tom,” Hepzibah gushed, “I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I’ve said it a hundred times...” 

Riddle smiled mechanically as Hepzibah simpered, and Draco grimaced. Even though he himself had grown up in a society with people exactly like Hepzibah, learning to simper and flatter to achieve any goal, he found it repulsive to watch it unfold. “Well, what’s your excuse for visiting this time?” Hepzibah went on, batting her lashes. 

“Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armor,” Riddle replied at once. “Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair—” 

“Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you’re only here for my trinkets!” Hepzibah pouted, and the expression did not look as sweet on her round face as Draco guessed she wanted it to.

“I am ordered here because of them,” Riddle said quietly. “I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire—” 

“Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!” Hepzibah declared, waving a little hand, her fingers studded with gaudy rings. “I have something to show you that I’ve never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won’t tell Mr. Burke I’ve got it? He’d never let me rest if he knew I’d shown it to you, and I’m not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you’ll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it.” 

“I’d be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me,” Riddle replied smoothly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle. 

“I had Hokey bring it out for me...Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure...in fact, bring both, while you’re at it...” 

“Here, madam,” squeaked the house elf, and Draco saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other, moving across the room as if of their own volition, though he knew the tiny elf was holding them over her head as she wound her way between tables, pouffes, and footstools. 

“Now, then,” Hepzibah cooed happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one, “I think you’ll like this, Tom...Oh, if my family knew I was showing you...They can’t wait to get their hands on this!” She opened the lid. Draco edged forward a little to get a better view, and saw what looked like a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles lying on the sleek velvet interior. 

“I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!” Hepzibah whispered, and Riddle stretched out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Draco thought he saw a red gleam in his dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously mirrored on Hepzibah’s face, except that her tiny eyes were fixed upon Riddle’s handsome features. 

“A badger,” Riddle murmured, examining the engraving upon the cup. “Then this was...?” 

“Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever boy!” Hepzibah simpered, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow cheek. “Didn’t I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn’t it? And all sorts of powers it’s supposed to possess too, but I haven’t tested them thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here...” 

She hooked the cup back off of Riddle’s long fingers and restored it gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to notice the shadow that crossed Riddle’s face as the cup was taken away. “Now then,” Hepzibah went on happily, “where’s Hokey? Oh yes, there you are—take that away now, Hokey.” 

The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah turned her attention to the much flatter box in her lap. “I think you’ll like this even more, Tom,” she whispered. “Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see...of course, Burke knows I’ve got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he’d love to get it back when I’m gone...” 

She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket. 

Riddle reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it. “Slytherin’s mark,” he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S engraved on the lid of the locket. 

“That’s right!” Hepzibah chirped, apparently delighted by the sight of Riddle gazing at her locket, transfixed. “I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn’t let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value—” 

There was no mistaking it this time: Riddle’s eyes flashed scarlet at the words, and Draco saw his knuckles turn white on the locket’s chain as Hepzibah unknowingly mentioned his long-dead mother. “—and I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you are...pretty, isn’t it? And again, all kinds of powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe...” 

She reached out to take the locket back. For a moment, Draco thought that Riddle was not going to let go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers and was back in its red velvet cushion. “So there you are, Tom, clear, and I hope you enjoyed that!” She looked him full in the face and for the first time, Draco saw her foolish smile falter. “Are you all right, dear?” 

“Oh yes,” Riddle replied softly. “Yes, I’m very well...” 

“I thought—but a trick of the light, I suppose—” Hepzibah murmured, looking unnerved, and Draco guessed that she had at last also seen the momentary red gleam in Riddle’s eyes. “Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again...the usual enchantments...” 

“Time to leave, Draco,” Dumbledore interrupted quietly, and as the house elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Draco’s arm once again above the elbow, and together they rose up through oblivion and back to Dumbledore’s office. “Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,” Dumbledore began without preamble, resuming his seat and indicating that Draco should do the same. “Hokey the house elf was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress’s evening cocoa by accident.” 

“What?” Draco gasped angrily, too stunned to form further protest. 

“I see we are of one mind,” Dumbledore said, smiling sadly. “Certainly, there are many similarities between this death and that of the elder three Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death—” 

“Hokey confessed?” Draco asked in disbelief.

“She remembered putting something in her mistress’s cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison,” Dumbledore confirmed. “It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused—” 

“Riddle modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!” Draco could not qualify the revulsion he felt at this information, disgusted at the callousness and cruelty with which Voldemort had ended lives as he grew in power, and how he had thrown others down to cover his tracks.

“Yes, that is my conclusion too,” Dumbledore nodded. “And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey—” 

“—because she was a house elf,” Draco finished slowly. He suddenly felt that he might actually understand why Hermione went beyond just feeling indignant over the abuse of house elves, and why she had ever started the uphill battle of beginning her whole S.P.E.W. mission. He himself had never been cruel or unkind towards the elves in the Malfoy Manor, and neither had Narcissa, but his memories flashed to when Lucius would unleash his temper on poor Dobby before Harry managed to free the elf using a loophole.

“Precisely,” Dumbledore confirmed. “She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over—but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the cup and the locket. 

“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah’s family had realized that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time.”

There was a long pause as Draco digested all of this. “Now,” Dumbledore went on, “if you don’t mind, Draco, I want to pause once more to draw your attention to specific points of our story. Young Lord Voldemort had committed another murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know...but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted, old woman had showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin’s ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah’s cup and locket.” 

“But,” Draco said, frowning, “it seems mad...risking everything, throwing away his job, just for those...” 

“Mad to you and me, perhaps, but not to Voldemort,” Dumbledore countered. “I hope you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him, Draco; but you must admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully his.” 

“The locket maybe,” Draco allowed begrudgingly; after all, back in Bob Ogden’s memory, it had been Riddle’s mother who actually wore the bloody thing, not his grandfather or his uncle. “But why take the cup as well?” 

“It had belonged to another of Hogwarts’s founders,” Dumbledore said simply. “I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so steeped in Hogwarts history. There were other reasons, I think...I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course.”

The Headmaster shrugged. “And now for the very last recollection I have to show you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn’s memory for us. Ten years separates Hokey’s memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing...” 

Draco got to his feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve. “Whose memory is it?” he asked. 

“Mine,” Dumbledore replied, stepping forward first. And Draco dove after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass, landing in the very office that they had just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Draco; however, both of his hands were whole and undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less lined. 

The one difference between the present-day office and this one was that it was snowing in the memory; bluish flecks were drifting past the window in the dark, and building up on the outside ledge. The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, “Enter.” 

Draco let out a hastily stifled gasp as Lord Voldemort entered the room. His features were not those that Draco had had come to be so miserably used to seeing in the halls and chambers of Malfoy Manor; they were not as snake-like, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet mask-like.

And yet, he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Draco knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders. The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise at seeing him. Evidently this visit had been made by appointment. 

“Good evening, Tom,” Dumbledore greeted him easily. “Won’t you sit down?” 

“Thank you,” Voldemort said, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured—the very seat, by the looks of it, that Draco himself had just vacated in the present. “I heard that you had become headmaster,” Voldemort continued, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been before. “A worthy choice.” 

“I am glad you approve,” Dumbledore remarked, smiling. “May I offer you a drink?” 

“That would be welcome,” Voldemort replied. “I have come a very long way.” 

Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was filled with bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his desk. “So, Tom...to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine. “They do not call me ‘Tom’ anymore,” he said at length. “These days, I am known as—” 

“I know what you are known as,” Dumbledore cut him off, still smiling pleasantly. “But to me, I’m afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.” He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Draco felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore’s refusal to use Voldemort’s chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Draco could tell that Voldemort understood it as such. 

“I am surprised you have remained here so long,” Voldemort said after a short pause. “I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school.”

“Well,” Dumbledore chuckled, still smiling, “to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too.” 

“I see it still,” Voldemort replied at once. “I merely wondered why you—who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister—” 

“Three times at the last count, actually,” Dumbledore once more interrupted him. “But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think.” 

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but waited, with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first. “I have returned,” Voldemort said, after a little while, “later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected...but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard.” 

Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking. “Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us,” he said quietly. “Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them.” 

Voldemort’s expression remained impassive as he said, “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.” 

“You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do you?” Dumbledore asked, and now his tone was far more delicate. 

“Certainly,” Voldemort replied at once, and his eyes seemed to burn red now. “I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed—” 

“Of some kinds of magic,” Dumbledore corrected him quietly. “Of some. Of others, you remain...forgive me...woefully ignorant.” 

For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage. “The same old argument between us,” he murmured. “But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore.” 

“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” Dumbledore suggested mildly. 

“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh research than here, at Hogwarts?” Voldemort said at once. “Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves—or so rumor has it—the Death Eaters?” 

Draco could tell immediately that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know that name; he saw Voldemort’s eyes flash red again and the slit-like nostrils flare. “My friends,” he said slowly, after another long pause, “will carry on without me, I am sure.” 

“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,” Dumbledore remarked. “I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants.” 

“You are mistaken.”

“Then if I were to go to the Hog’s Head tonight, I would not find a group of them—Nott, Rosier, Muldber, Dolohov—awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post.” 

Draco’s mouth went dry as he heard the familiar names. Somehow, just like he had never visualized the human-looking man behind Voldemort...he had also never pictured any of the cloaked figures who haunted his home as young men, first recruited to the Dark Lord’s cause. And hearing the name  _ Nott _ among them made his heart twinge. He almost wished he had the power to fly into the village, here in this memory, and warn the man that someday, this monster would murder him in cold blood for trying to choose the safety of his wife and son over Lord Voldemort’s summons.

There could be no doubt that Dumbledore’s detailed knowledge of those with whom Voldemort was traveling was even less welcome to hear; however, he rallied almost at once.

“You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore.” 

“Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen,” Dumbledore replied lightly. “Now, Tom...” Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture. “Let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?” 

Voldemort looked coldly surprised at that. “A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much.” 

“Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you’re after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?” 

Voldemort sneered. “If you do not want to give me a job—” 

“Of course I don’t,” Dumbledore said, cutting him off yet again. “And I don’t think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose.” 

Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever before, his features thick with rage. “This is your final word?” 

“It is,” Dumbledore confirmed, also standing.

“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.” 

“No, nothing,” Dumbledore conceded, and a great sadness filled his face. “The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom...I truly wish that I could...” 

For a second, Draco was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning; he was sure that Voldemort’s hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone. Draco felt the older Dumbledore’s hand close over his arm again, and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore’s hand was blackened and dead-looking once more. 

“Why?” Draco asked at once, looking up into Dumbledore’s face. “Why did he come back? Did you ever find out?” 

“I have theories,” Dumbledore replied, “but no more than that.” 

“What are they, sir?” 

“I shall tell you, Draco, when you have retrieved that memory from Professor Slughorn,” Dumbledore said, across the study away from him. “When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be made clear...to both of us.” 

Draco was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was holding it open for him, he did not move right away. “Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn’t say...” 

“Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job,” Dumbledore confirmed. “The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort.” 

* * *

It was too late to try and connect with Ron and Hermione after Draco left Dumbledore’s study, and he didn’t fill Theo or Pansy in yet, either; it was easier to tell all four of them at once. The following evening found them all back in the library, and he was able to give them an abridged summary. Draco left out the fact that Theo’s father had been mentioned in the Headmaster’s memory, not wishing to hurt his friend.

“We have something else to think about, too,” Hermione remarked, and she gestured at Ron as if encouraging him to speak. The redhead sighed, sliding a folded up sheet of parchment over to Draco. It revealed itself to be a letter, the handwriting very difficult to read due to the presence of large blotches on the parchment where the ink had run. 

_ Dear Ron and Hermione, _

_ Aragog died last night. Ron, you met him once, you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you’d have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you’d nip down for the burial later this evening. I’m planning on doing it ‘round dusk, that was his favorite time of day. I know you’re not supposed to be out that late, but you can use the cloak. Wouldn’t ask, but I can’t face it alone.  _

_ ~Hagrid  _

“Aragog?” Draco asked, frowning. “Wait, didn’t you tell me about that--wasn’t he--?”

“An Acromantula,” Hermione confirmed wearily. “Hagrid rescued him as an egg, or a hatchling, or something--raised him. It’s why Hagrid was expelled when he was in school here, he was actually accused of being the one opening the bloody Chamber of Secrets. Now--or, you know, before he died--Aragog was living in the Forbidden Forest.”

“With literally thousands of offspring,” Ron added, disgruntled. “Actually, it was You-Know-Who who framed Hagrid, dunno if we told you that.” Draco blinked; now that he had seen what the school-aged Tom Riddle had looked and behaved like, he somehow found it very easy to imagine. The bastard must have taken great delight in ruining Hagrid’s life that way. “Honestly, Hagrid’s mental,” Ron added crossly. “‘Special,’ alright...that sodding spider tried to eat us. Or let all his kids do, at any rate.”

He recounted a brief telling of the night that he and Harry Potter had gone into the Forest, trying to learn the truth about the supposed monster and unable to ask Hagrid, as he had been taken to Azkaban that same night. Draco was bemused and horrified in turn, shuddering at the thought of encountering the horde of eight-legged beasts at only twelve-years-old.

“I don’t know, it sounds to me like you were pretty brave,” Pansy remarked, smiling at Ron. A lifetime of friendship meant that Draco instantly recognized the softness in her gaze, and he hid a smirk at seeing his best mate finally beginning to be comfortable flirting with the object of her fancy. “Can’t blame Hagrid for thinking you liked Aragog--did he even ever find out that the Acromantula tried to kill you?”

“Don’t know, to be honest,” Ron said, and there was no denying that he looked pleased by Pansy’s attention and compliments. “‘Course, this is the man who happily adopted a dragon egg, and saw no issue owning a three-stories-tall three-headed dog. I don’t know that he’d have taken it seriously if we  _ did _ tell him how close we came to being spider chow.”

As they bantered, a pair of girls a few years below them walked through the library, looking tense and close to tears. Ron trailed off mid-sentence, watching them go. “Blimey, they don’t look happy, do they?” 

“They’re the Montgomery sisters. Of course they don’t look happy, didn’t you hear what happened to their little brother?” Hermione asked tiredly. 

“I’m losing track of what’s happening to everyone’s relatives, to be honest,” Ron admitted, looking pained. “Missing?” 

“No...attacked by a werewolf.” Hermione’s mouth tightened as the other three startled, looking after the sisters with pity as she continued. “The rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St. Mungo’s, they couldn’t save him.” 

“He died?” Draco echoed, surprised. “But werewolves don’t usually hunt to kill, they just turn you into one.” 

“They sometimes kill,” Ron murmured, looking far more grave now. “I’ve heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away.” 

That phrasing set off a red flag, and Draco frowned, an uncomfortable instinct squirming in his gut. “What was the werewolf’s name?” he asked, already guessing the answer. 

“Everyone believes that it was Fenrir Greyback,” Hermione confirmed, and the look that she gave Draco told him that she knew he’d already realized that. “He’s their go-to punishment for something like that, after all.” Draco nodded, feeling anger and frustration prickling behind his eyelids. 

As Ron and Pansy resumed their work, the atmosphere far more somber now, Hermione reached over to touch Dreaco’s hand beneath the table. “You’ve got to get that memory,” she said softly. “It’s all about stopping Voldemort, isn’t it? These dreadful things that are happening are all down to him...” Reaching into her pocket, she drew out the vial containing the Felix Felicis, and Draco blinked, looking at her uncertainly.

“It may be your best chance at getting the memory,” Hermione explained, pressing it into his palm. “I mean, that’s how Slughorn described it, right? He said the days he took it were ‘two perfect days’? This is a bit of an odd take on that, but...if it guarantees success at whatever your endeavor is...”

Surprised, Draco realized that she was absolutely right. Lifting the vial, he very carefully broke the wax seal, uncorking it and sniffing it curiously. The scent of the potion was somehow indefinable, but it was certainly intriguing.

Ron and Pansy stopped working, looking at the golden liquid swirling in the vial curiously. “Right now?” Pansy asked, her voice hushed. “You think that’s sensible?”

For a split second, Draco wanted to let that sway him; he nearly recorked the vial and postponed trying. But then he remembered the resolve that he had felt when he had been sitting across from Dumbledore; he had committed to taking the first chance that presented itself, and doing his best. 

“Might not be sensible, but it’s what I’ve got to do,” Draco said simply. Eyeing the amount of potion that he had, he took a deep breath. “I don’t think I need to take all of it right now, not twenty-four hours’ worth...for now I’ll just take a mouthful. Two or three hours should do it.” 

Given the time, Slughorn would be down in the Great Hall for dinner; and knew that he liked to take time over meals. So they held off, continuing to work for a little while longer there in the library, the plan being that Draco should go to Slughorn's office once the teacher had had time to return there. 

When the sun had sunk to the level of the treetops in the Forbidden Forest, visible through the library windows, it seemed that the moment had come. They gathered up their school things, and Pansy took Draco’s bag for him as he took the Felix Felicis back out of his pocket.

“Well, here goes,” Draco murmured, and he raised the little bottle in a teasing toast to the others, then took a carefully measured gulp. 

“What does it feel like?” Hermione asked at once, sounding both curious and concerned for him. 

Draco did not answer for a moment. Then, slowly but surely, an exhilarating sense of infinite opportunity stole through him; he felt as though he could have done anything, anything at all...and getting the memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only possible, but positively easy.

He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence. “Excellent,” he replied. “Really excellent. Right...I’m going down to Hagrid’s.” 

“What?” Ron and Hermione asked in unison, looking aghast. “No, wait—Draco, you’ve got to go and see Slughorn, remember?” Hermione reminded him. 

“No,” Draco said confidently. “I’m going to Hagrid’s, I’ve got a good feeling about going to Hagrid’s.” 

“You’ve got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?” Ron asked, looking bemused. “One you never even met, mind you.” 

“Yes,” Draco said simply, pulling on his cloak; it would be chilly out on the grounds. “I feel like it’s the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?” 

“No,” the other three all said together, looking positively alarmed now. “This  _ is _ Felix Felicis, I suppose?” Pansy asked in bewilderment, holding up the bottle to the light. “You didn’t have another little bottle full of—I don’t know—”

“Essence of Insanity?” Ron suggested as Hermione shook her head, taking the bottle from Pansy and putting it safely away. Draco finished fastening his cloak over his shoulders, chuckling, and Ron, Pansy, and Hermione all looked even more alarmed. 

“Trust me,” Draco said firmly. “I know what I’m doing...or at least, Felix does.” And with that, he strolled confidently out of the library.


	22. Nowhere to Stand and Nowhere to Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'Harry’s gone. I’ve taken up his mantle, whether I meant to or not, and I need to see this through to the end.'''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon inclusion aside, this chapter was SO fun and satisfying to write.

Draco did not have to creep along as he left the castle, for he met nobody on his way, but this did not surprise him in the slightest. Tonight, he was the luckiest person at Hogwarts.

Why he knew that going to Hagrid’s was the right thing to do, he had no idea. It was as though the potion was illuminating a few steps of the path at a time. He could not see the final destination, he could not see where Slughorn came in, but he knew that he was going the right way to get that memory. 

When he reached the entrance hall he saw that Filch had forgotten to lock the front door. Beaming, Draco threw it open and breathed in the smell of clean air and grass for a moment before walking down the steps into the dusk. It was when he reached the bottom step that it occurred to him how very pleasant it would be to pass the vegetable patch on his walk to Hagrid’s. It was not strictly on the way, but it seemed clear to Draco that this was a whim on which he should act, so he directed his feet immediately toward the vegetable patch, where he was pleased, but not altogether surprised, to find Professor Slughorn in conversation with Professor Sprout. 

Draco lurked behind a low stone wall, feeling at peace with the world and listening to their conversation. “I do thank you for taking the time, Pomona,” Slughorn was saying courteously, “most authorities agree that they are at their most efficacious if picked at twilight.” 

“Oh, I quite agree,” Professor Sprout replied warmly. “That enough for you?” 

“Plenty, plenty,” Slughorn assured her; Draco saw that he was carrying an armful of leafy plants. “This should allow for a few leaves for each of my third years, and some to spare if anybody over-stews them...well, good evening to you, and many thanks again!” Professor Sprout headed off into the gathering darkness in the direction of her greenhouses, and Slughorn directed his steps toward the spot where Draco stood in the shadows. 

“Good evening, Professor,” Draco said, stepping into the fading evening light and therefore into view. 

“Merlin’s beard, Draco, you made me jump,” Slughorn gasped, stopping dead in his tracks and looking wary. “How did you get out of the castle?” 

“I think Filch must’ve forgotten to lock the doors,” Draco replied cheerfully, and was delighted to see Slughorn scowl. 

“I’ll be reporting that man, he’s more concerned about litter than proper security if you ask me...but why are you out then, Draco?” 

“Well, sir, it’s Hagrid,” Draco explained, who knew that the right thing to do now was to tell the truth. “He’s pretty upset...but you won’t tell anyone, Professor? I don’t want trouble for him...” 

Slughorn’s curiosity was evidently aroused. “Well, I can’t promise that,” he said gruffly. “But I know that Dumbledore trusts Hagrid to the hilt, so I’m sure he can’t be up to anything very dreadful...” 

“Well, it’s this giant spider, he’s had it for years...it lived in the Forbidden Forest...it could talk and everything—” 

“I heard rumors there were Acromantulas in the forest,” Slughorn said softly, looking over at the mass of black trees. “It’s true, then?” 

“Yes,” Draco confirmed. “But this one, Aragog, the first one Hagrid ever got, it died last night. He’s devastated. He wants company while he buries it and I said I’d go.” 

“Touching, touching,” Slughorn said absentmindedly, his large droopy eyes fixed upon the distant lights of Hagrid’s cabin. “But acromantula venom is very valuable...if the beast only just died it might not yet have dried out...of course, I wouldn’t want to do anything insensitive if Hagrid is upset...but if there was any way to procure some...I mean, it’s almost impossible to get venom from an acromantula while it’s alive...” Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than Draco now. “...seems an awful waste not to collect it...might get a hundred Galleons a pint...to be frank, my salary is not large...” 

And now Draco saw clearly what was to be done. “Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, “Well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would probably be really pleased...we could give Aragog a better send-off, you know...” 

“Yes, of course,” Slughorn said, his eyes now gleaming with enthusiasm as he seized on that excuse. “I tell you what, Draco, I’ll meet you down there with a bottle or two...we’ll drink the poor beast’s—well—not health, obviously—but we’ll send it off in style, anyway, once it’s buried. And I’ll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the occasion...” 

He bustled back towards the castle, and Draco trotted off to Hagrid’s, delighted with himself. 

“Draco--hello, wasn’t expectin’ yeh,” croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door and saw Draco standing on his front step. “Generous of yeh to come, though...”

“Yes—Ron and Hermione couldn’t, though, and they’re sorry for that,” Draco said apologetically. “They send their love and condolences.” 

“Don’—don’ matter...hed’ve bin touched that yeh’re here for me, Draco...” Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen. Draco patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach. 

“Where are we burying him?” he asked. “In the forest?” 

“Blimey, no,” Hagrid replied, wiping his streaming eyes on the bot-tom of his shirt. “The other spiders won’ let me anywhere near their webs now Aragog’s gone. Turns out it was only on his orders they didn’ eat me! Can yeh believe that?” Based on Ron’s tale, Draco easily could, but he thought this was better not to mention out loud.

“Never bin an area o’ the forest I couldn’ go before!” Hagrid went on, shaking his head. “It wasn’ easy, gettin’ Aragog’s body out o’ there, I can tell yeh—they usually eat their dead, see...but I wanted ter give ‘im a nice burial...a proper send-off...” 

He broke into sobs again, and Draco resumed the patting of his elbow, saying as he did so (for the potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing to do), “Professor Slughorn met me coming down here, Hagrid.”

“Not in trouble, are yeh?” Hagrid asked at once, looking up, alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the evenin’, I know it, it’s my fault—” 

“No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he’d like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,” Draco assured him. “He’s gone to change into something more suitable, I think...and he said he’d bring some bottles so we can drink to Aragog’s memory...” 

“Did he really?” Hagrid asked, looking both astonished and touched. “Tha’s—tha’s righ’ nice of him, that is, an’ not turnin’ yeh in either. I’ve never really had a lot ter do with Horace Slughorn before...comin’ ter see old Aragog off, though, eh? Well...he’d’ve liked that, Aragog would...” 

Draco thought privately that what Aragog would have liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the rear window of Hagrid’s hut, where he saw the rather horrible sight of an enormous dead spider lying on its back outside, its legs curled and tangled. “Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your garden?” 

“Jus’ beyond the pumpkin patch, I thought,” Hagrid confirmed in a choked voice. “I’ve already dug the—yeh know—the grave. Jus’ thought we’d say a few nice things over him—happy memories, yeh know—” His voice quivered and broke. 

There was a knock on the door, and he turned to answer it, blowing his nose on his great spotted handkerchief as he did so. Slughorn hurried over the threshold, several bottles in his arms, and wearing a somber black cravat. “Hagrid,” he said, in a deep, grave voice. “So very sorry to hear of your loss.” 

“Tha’s very nice of yeh,” Hagrid told him. “Thanks a lot. An’ thanks fer not givin’ Draco detention for comin’ out, neither...” 

“Wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” Slughorn said. “Sad night, sad night...where is the poor creature, Hagrid?” 

“Out here,” Hagrid said in a shaking voice. “Shall we—shall we do it, then?” The three of them stepped out into the back garden. The moon was glistening palely through the trees now, and its rays mingled with the light spilling from Hagrid’s window to illuminate Aragog’s body lying on the edge of a massive pit beside a ten-foot-high mound of freshly dug earth. 

“Magnificent,” Slughorn murmured, approaching the spider’s head, where eight milky eyes stared blankly at the sky and two huge, curved pincers shone, motionless, in the moonlight. Draco thought that he heard the distinct tinkle of bottles as Slughorn bent over the pincers, apparently examining the enormous hairy head.

“It’s not ev’ryone appreciates how beau’iful they are,” Hagrid said to Slughorn’s back, tears leaking from the corners of his crinkled eyes. “I didn’ know yeh were interested in creatures like Aragog, Horace.” 

“Interested? My dear Hagrid, I revere them,” Slughorn replied, stepping back from the body. Draco caught the glint of a bottle disappear beneath his cloak, though Hagrid, mopping his eyes once more, noticed nothing. “Now... shall we proceed to the burial?” 

Hagrid nodded and moved forward. He heaved the gigantic spider into his arms and, with an enormous grunt, rolled it into the dark pit. It hit the bottom with a rather horrible, crunchy thud. Hagrid started to cry again. “Of course, it’s difficult for you, who knew him best,” Slughorn said soothingly, who like Draco could reach no higher than Hagrid’s elbow, but patted it all the same. “Why don’t I say a few words?” 

He must have got a lot of good quality venom from Aragog, Draco thought, for Slughorn wore a satisfied smirk as he stepped up to the rim of the pit and said, in a slow, impressive voice, “Farewell, Aragog, king of arachnids, whose long and faithful friendship those who knew you won’t forget! Though your body will decay, your spirit lingers on in the quiet, web-spun places of your forest home. May your many-eyed descendants ever flourish and your human friends find solace for the loss they have sustained.” 

“Tha was...tha was...beau’iful!” Hagrid howled, and he collapsed onto the compost heap, crying harder than ever. 

“There, there,” Slughorn comforted him, waving his wand so that the huge pile of earth rose up and then fell, with a muffled sort of crash, onto the dead spider, forming a smooth mound. “Lets get inside and have a drink. Get on his other side, Draco... that’s it...up you come, Hagrid...well done...” 

They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table. Fang, who had been skulking in his basket during the burial, now came padding softly across to them and put his heavy head into Draco’s lap, smearing thick globs of drool. Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had brought. 

“I have had it all tested for poison,” he assured Draco, who smiled faintly at the joke. Slughorn poured most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid’s bucket-sized mugs, and handed it to Hagrid. “Had a house elf taste every bottle after what happened to your poor friend Rupert.” Draco saw, in his mind’s eye, the expression on Hermione’s face if she ever heard about this abuse of house elves, and made a mental note never to mention it to her. Just thinking of one of those poor elves getting killed…it was enough to make his own skin crawl, thinking of the elves back at the Manor, and thinking of Dobby in particular. 

“One for Draco...” Slughorn went on, dividing a second bottle between two mugs, “...and one for me. Well—” He raised his mug high. “—To Aragog.”

“Aragog,” Draco and Hagrid echoed together. Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Draco, however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he merely pretended to take a gulp and then set the mug back on the table before him. 

“I had him from an egg, yeh know,” Hagrid mumbled morosely. “‘Tiny little thing he was when he hatched. ‘Bout the size of a Pekingese. Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school until...well...” Hagrid’s face darkened and Draco knew why: Tom Riddle, and the wrongs he had committed against Hagrid, could not be even remotely pleasant memories to revisit.

Slughorn, however, did not seem to be listening; he was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright white hair. “That’s not unicorn hair, Hagrid?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Hagrid said indifferently. “Gets pulled out of their tails, they catch it on branches an’ stuff in the forest, yeh know...” 

“But my dear chap, do you know how much that’s worth?” Slughorn was looking at Hagrid as if unsure of what to make of a man who possessed such valuable things, and didn’t profit from them.

“I use it fer bindin’ on bandages an’ stuff if a creature gets in jured,” Hagrid answered, shrugging. “It’s dead useful...very strong.” 

Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug, his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now: looking, Draco knew, for more treasures that he might be able to convert into a plentiful supply of oak-matured mead, crystalized pineapple, or velvet smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid’s mug and his own, and questioned him about the creatures that lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming expansive under the influence of the drink and Slughorn’s flattering interest, stopped mopping his eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of bowtruckle husbandry. 

The Felix Felicis gave Draco a little nudge at this point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Grinning to himself, and unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn (now swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs), Draco pointed his wand under the table and mouthed the Refilling Charm, and at the emptying bottles immediately began to refill. 

After an hour or so, Hagrid and Slughorn began making extravagant toasts: to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to elf-made wine, and to— “Harry Potter!” hiccuped Hagrid, slopping some of his fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he drained it. “Such a poor lad, such a good soul… Gone t’ soon, yeh know…‘E was so small…”

“Yes, indeed,” Slughorn cheered, a little thickly, “Parry Otter, the Chosen Boy Who—well—something of that sort,” he mumbled, and drained his mug too. 

Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who pocketed it with cries of, “To friendship! To generosity! To ten Galleons a hair!” And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo. 

“Aaargh, the good die young,” Hagrid muttered eventually, slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while Slughorn continued to warble the refrain of the song under his breath. “Me dad was no age ter go...nor were any of th’ Potters...” Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid’s crinkled eyes again. 

Slughorn nodded, reaching out to grasp Hagrid’s arm, either in solidarity or for balance. “I heard such wonderful things of him...and his poor parents...Best wiz and witchard of their age...I never knew...terrible thing... terrible thing...” 

“...terrible,” Hagrid grunted as well, and then his great shaggy head rolled sideways onto his arms as he fell asleep, snoring deeply. 

“Sorry,” Slughorn remarked with a hiccup, his mind apparently sliding back to their singing a few minutes earlier. “Can’t carry a tune to save my life...” 

“Hagrid wasn’t talking about your singing, Professor,” Draco told him quietly. “He was talking about Harry Potter dying.” 

“Oh,” Slughorn muttered, repressing a large belch. “Oh dear. Yes, that was—was terrible indeed. Terrible...terrible...” He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs, despite Draco’s still being untouched. “I wish...I had known young Harry. Never met him, not even once...” Blinking at Draco uncertainly, Slughorn swallowed. “Did you...did you know him well, Draco?”

In his mind’s eyes, Draco could conjure up his memories of Harry; scrawny, sarcastic, justice always blazing in those almost unnaturally bright green eyes. He hadn’t looked like much at eleven, walking into Madam Malkin’s robe shop, but something about him had made Draco interested, and when he had offered his hand in friendship on the train...well…

“No,” he said quietly. “Harry and I, we…We never got along. We became rivals almost as soon as we met each other properly. But I do bitterly regret it. From what Ron and Hermione have told me about him, he would have been a good friend to have.”

“Rivals?” Slughorn blinked a bit slowly, before he nodded. “Ah yes, because of your, erm…Your father, I’m assuming? He wouldn’t have liked you to be friends with Harry?”

“...Partially,” Draco said, though he felt the small nudge of Felix within his chest, urging him to be honest. “But mostly it was my own fault. I didn’t start off on the right foot. I made derogatory comments about the Weasleys just after Harry met Ron, and he took offense to it. After that, I usually picked the fights. I wanted to rile him up, or get him into trouble, but not enough of my childhood schemes worked to get him into anything serious.” He sighed a little, leaning back in his chair, the dejection a little too real to be faked. “I was a stupid, silly child. I took it too far. And now he’s gone, and I can never apologize for all of the misery I caused him.”

“My dear boy, you shouldn’t blame yourself for anything that happened to Harry,” Slughorn protested, his voice coming out a bit gentle, despite how his words had become slurred thanks to the alcohol. “Like you said, you were just a child…”

“But I upheld the beliefs that got Harry killed.” And for the first time, Draco felt his chest tighten a little, felt his eyes pricking a bit, but he stubbornly held back the more overwhelming emotions. Now wasn’t the time to cry, and thankfully the Felix potion kept him from doing so. “I wanted so much to believe my father was a good man, that we were better than others thanks to a stupid, archaic ideology. Now Harry is dead, and I’ve shed the old ways, but in a way…I’ve taken Harry’s place. To fight Voldemort. Dumbledore said so.”

Slughorn gave a shudder at Voldemort’s name, his face paling dramatically, and Draco knew he finally had the man right where he needed him. “That’s…No, Draco, you couldn’t have, Harry was—”

“Harry was severely under-informed,” Draco countered firmly, looking up to lock eyes with the old professor, his own steely gaze keeping the man from falling over from the contact alone. “He was a fourteen-year-old boy who died an unfair death, because he didn’t know what he needed to know to defeat Voldemort.” There was a long pause, as the clock nearby ticked away, before he lowered his voice. “But you know something...don’t you, Professor?”

Slughorn’s hand twitched. “I don’t—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Dumbledore needs that information. I need that information.” He knew he was safe; Felix was telling him that Slughorn would remember none of this in the morning, and maybe that was for the better. He had gone to great lengths to tamper with the first memory he gave to Dumbledore, in an effort to try and keep his conscience clear. At least this time around, the guilt wouldn’t be so horrible. “Harry’s gone. I’ve taken up his mantle, whether I meant to or not, and I need to see this through to the end. Don’t you want to get rid of the wizard who murdered Lily Evans and her family in cold blood?”

“Of course I do, but—” Slughorn gulped a little. “I am not proud… I am ashamed of what—of what that memory shows. I think I may have done great damage that day…”

He had to do this carefully. Ever so slowly, Draco sat up again, leaning forward onto the table and bracing his arms against it. “Harry Potter was a courageous boy,” he said softly. “Far braver, and far more noble, than I could ever hope to be. He was kind to a fault, and he defended those who needed defending, and he came to Hogwarts from a family of Muggles who didn’t care for him, not one bit. He found love and happiness in this world, and it got taken away from him just as quickly, and now we’ll never have someone like him again. I will never get the chance to make things right to him face-to-face. This is my one chance at making it up to him. I want to make things better. I have to be the one to kill Voldemort. I made that choice, Professor. You need to make that choice too.”

There were tears in Slughorn’s eyes, and he briefly buried his face in his hands, body trembling a bit before he looked up again. “You are certain you need the information?” he asked in a wavering tone. “I planted that idea in his head, I was the one who told him what he needed to know… A student’s idle curiosity, I just thought…”

“You’ll cancel it out if you do the right thing,” Draco said. "Don't let Harry be the one who died in vain, before he was even given the information he desperately needed to survive. Give  _ me  _ the memory, Professor. I promise, I can use it to my advantage."

There was another long pause, long enough to nearly make anyone uncomfortable, but Felix Felicis told Draco to not say a word, to not move, to not break eye contact. He had to wait, and like any good Slytherin, he did so; until, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. With his other hand, he pulled out a small empty bottle, before lifting his wand to his temple and withdrawing it, a long silver thread of memory coming out of his skin attached to the wand tip. Ever so carefully, Slughorn pulled the memory, until it was so long it looked like some kind of pearly, living creature. 

When it broke, he lowered it into the bottle, where it coiled, then spread, swirling like gas. With a trembling hand, he corked the bottle, and then slid it across the table, where Draco’s fingers were waiting to grasp it as soon as it was within reach.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said gently. “I promise, this will be put to good use.”

Slughorn sniffed a little. “I had my doubts about you,” he admitted. “Coming from your family and all… But you look so much like your mother, and Narcissa was such a gentle soul…You’ll never know the relief I felt, at seeing that you’re just like her. A good lad…” He sniffled again. “Don’t think too badly of me, once you’ve seen it…”

And with that, he lowered his head into his arms, gave a deep sigh, and then promptly fell asleep.

* * *

The grounds were silent, except for the nightlife, as Draco sprinted across the grassy grounds, dead leaves crunching under his feet. He could feel the Felix Felicis beginning to wear off, ebbing slowly out of his system, but he didn’t care. It had worked, exactly as promised, and now he was riding high off of his own success, not even caring if he would be caught in the corridors. He still had just barely enough, he knew, to keep himself from being discovered by anyone, least of all Filch and Mrs Norris.

Reaching the castle, he slipped inside, running as fast as his legs would take him, all the way up to the Headmaster’s office, where the gargoyle steps were waiting for him. Originally, Draco knew that Dumbledore had not been in the castle for the past several days. But with the Felix Felicis, he had a great feeling that Dumbledore had returned.

“Toffee eclairs,” Draco said to the gargoyle, and it leapt aside, permitting the teenager the entrance he needed, bounding up the stairs and rushing to the office door. Not wanting to sound too eager, he gave only a few soft, but hurried knocks, instead of the hammering he wanted to give.

“Enter,” Dumbledore’s voice called out, though the poor man sounded exhausted.

Pushing the door open, Draco saw the office remained unchanged, except for the starry skies beyond the windows. He was getting too used to the late afternoon light spilling in instead.

“Good gracious Draco,” Dumbledore said, raising his eyebrows in surprise to see the blonde looking so frazzled. “To what do I owe this very late pleasure?”

“Sir,” Draco said breathlessly, only now beginning to notice the stitch in his chest. This is why he didn’t run everywhere; Merlin’s beard, he would need to work on his stamina. “Sir, I’ve got it. I’ve got the memory from Slughorn.”

Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out the glass vial, holding it up into the light where Dumbledore could see it. For a long moment, the headmaster looked stunned, before his entire face split into a wide smile, those blue eyes brightening with so much excitement that they nearly glowed. “Draco, this is spectacular news! Very well done indeed; I knew you could do it!”

Draco felt his face flush. It was, to his knowledge, one of the few times he had ever been praised by anyone in authority with sincerity. Praise from his mother was something he cherished, but he knew she was biased; praise from Severus came only because Draco would push himself to perfection before he ever dared to present a potion that Severus had been teaching him, or accomplishing a goal of his; praise from his father...that had only happened maybe three times in his entire life.

Thankfully, he had no time to dwell on those thoughts. The lateness of the hour was apparently forgotten, as Dumbledore got to his feet and hurried around his desk, taking the bottle with Slughorn’s memory with his uninjured hand. Striding over to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve, he placed the stone basin onto his desk. “Now,” the headmaster said, as Draco trotted over to him, struggling to catch his breath, “at last, we shall see. Draco, quickly…”

Obediently, Draco bowed over the Pensieve, and felt his feet leave the office floor. Once again, in a familiar feeling, he fell through darkness, and landed in Horace Slughorn’s office from many years before. The younger Slughorn was still there, sitting in his comfortable winged armchair in his office, feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, a small glass of wine in hand, while the other rummaged in a box of crystallized pineapple. And, just like the last time, there were the half dozen teenage boys sitting around Slughorn, with Tom Riddle in the midst of him, Marvolo’s gold and black ring gleaming on his finger.

Dumbledore landed just as Riddle started to ask, “Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?”

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” Slughorn said, wagging his finger at Riddle, though he still winked at the same time. He looked very much like an approving mentor. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half of the staff, you are.”

Riddle simply smiled, while the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. It made Draco’s lip curl a little, knowing what Riddle had done, what he was capable of doing...and what he would do in the future. How could anyone look at someone the way these future Death Eaters were looking at Riddle, without having some kind of evil within their own selves?

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favorite—” Several of the boys tittered again. “—I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry.”

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others all laughed again. Draco noticed that he was by no means the oldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader. “I don’t know that politics would suit me, sir,” he said when the laughter had died away. “I don’t have the right kind of background, for one thing.” 

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Draco was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader’s most famous ancestor. He wondered, suddenly, if Riddle had even told them what he had learned of his connection to Salazar Slytherin himself. Maybe he had, if only for bragging rights. He knew several others in the Sacred Twenty Eight who liked to exaggerate their connections to famous witches and wizards of the past.

“Nonsense,” Slughorn retorted briskly, “couldn’t be plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you’ll go far, Tom, I’ve never been wrong about a student yet.” 

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven o’clock behind him and he looked around. “Good gracious, is it that time already? You’d better get going boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by in morrow or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.” 

One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him look around; Riddle was still standing there, as before. “Look sharp, Tom, you don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a Prefect...” 

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”

Oh, he was good, Draco thought to himself. Tom Riddle, so confident, so charming; but right now he was standing there, fidgeting with the ring on his finger, as if nervous to ask about something he knew he shouldn’t be asking about. He looked every way the part of the perfect student, just hungry for knowledge--but there was a slightly cold edge in those dark eyes, that gave away that he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away...” Slughorn smiled at the teenager, clearly having no idea what Riddle was about to ambush him with.

“Sir, I wondered what you know about...about Horcruxes?”

Slughorn stared at him, his thick ringers absentmindedly clawing the stem of his wine glass. “Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?” But Draco could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork. 

“Not exactly, sir,” Riddle replied. “I came across the term while reading, and...I didn’t fully understand it.” 

“No...well...you’d be hard-pushed to find a book anywhere at Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom...that’s very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed,” Slughorn agreed anxiously.

“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you—sorry, I mean, if you can’t tell me, obviously—I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could—so I just thought I’d–” 

It was very well done, Draco though: the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. He, Draco, had had too much experience of trying to wheedle information out of reluctant people not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been working toward this moment for weeks.

“Well,” Slughorn hedged, not quite looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, “well, it can’t hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.” 

“I don’t quite understand how that works, though, sir,” Riddle replied. His voice was carefully controlled, but Draco could sense his excitement. 

“Well, you split your soul, you see,” Slughorn said slowly, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form...” Slughorn’s face crumpled and Draco suddenly remembered vividly that first awful summer, coming home to find Voldemort alive and well, bragging about how he had cheated death itself. “...few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.” 

But Death was not accepted, Draco could see that as plain as day. Riddle’s hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing. “How do you split your soul, sir?”

“Well,” Slughorn muttered uncomfortably, “you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”

“But how do you do it?”

“By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart, my boy. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion—” 

“Encase? But how—?” 

“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know!” Slughorn cried, shaking his head like an old elephant being bothered by mosquitoes. “Do I look as though I have tried it—do I look like a killer?” 

“No, sir, of course not,” Riddle said quickly. “I’m so sorry, sir...I didn’t mean to offend...” 

“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” Slughorn replied gruffly, “It is natural to feel some curiosity about these things...Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic...”

“Yes, sir,” Riddle said, his tone level once more. “What I don’t understand, though—just out of curiosity—I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn’t seven—?”

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” A sound very much like a yelp escaped Slughorn, and he stared at Riddle with absolute horror and revulsion, a feeling that Draco himself shared as he listened and observed. “Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case...bad enough to divide the soul...but to rip it into seven pieces...” 

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Draco could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all. “Of course,” he muttered, “this is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic...” 

“Yes, sir, of course,” Riddle said, his response quick, his voice smooth. 

“But all the same, Tom...keep it quiet, what I’ve told—that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know...Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it...”

“I won’t say a word, sir,” Riddle promised, and then he left; but not before Draco had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them somehow less human…

It was the expression of a madman.

“Thank you, Draco,” Dumbledore interjected quietly. “Let us go...” 

When Draco landed back on the office floor, Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his desk. Draco sat too, and waited for Dumbledore to speak. “I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time,” the older wizard said at last. “It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it tells me that I am right, and also how very far there is still to go...” 

Draco suddenly noticed that every single one of the old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits around the walls was awake and listening in on their conversation. A corpulent, red-nosed wizard had actually taken out an ear trumpet. 

“Well, Draco,” Dumbledore went on, “I am sure you understood the significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or take a few months, Tom Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to make himself immortal.”

“You believe he succeeded then, sir.” There was no doubt in Draco’s tone now, gazing at the Headmaster with equally intense eyes. “That’s why he didn’t die when he tried to kill Harry the first time, as an infant. He was blasted apart, but he didn’t die. He had made a Horcrux to keep himself alive?”

“Indeed...one, or more,” Dumbledore confirmed. “You heard Voldemort; what he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many, separately concealed Horcrux. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know—as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew—no wizard had ever done more than tear his soul into two halves.” 

Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his thoughts, and then said, “Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul.”

“What?” Draco sat up straight, eyes widening. “How?”

Dumbledore smiled faintly, a nostalgic look coming into those eyes. “Harry Potter handed it to me,” he said softly. “He placed it right into my hands. Draco, you remember the Chamber of Secrets opening, four years ago?”

“Of course, sir,” Draco said. And then a small laugh escaped him. “Ron and Hermione said they once suspected that I was the Heir of Slytherin. Though obviously, that’s not possible. I am connected to the Peverell family on my mother’s side, but I don’t think that makes me a direct descendant of Slytherin himself.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Dumbledore agreed, though he smiled a little wider. Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out a small black book that was covered in dry ink and blood, with a scorched hole right through the middle. “This, my boy, was Tom Riddle’s diary. This is also his first Horcrux…Or, it was, before Harry destroyed it four years ago. Voldemort left it behind, containing instructions on how to open the Chamber of Secrets...and eleven-year-old Ginny Weasley got her hands on it, by way of...”

Draco’s stomach dropped a little, because now he did recognize the diary. “My father,” Draco muttered, horrified. “He...had that book in our library. but he never let me touch it. He said it was dangerous.”

“And it was.” Dumbledore gave Draco a sympathetic glance. “Though I have doubts that Lucius ever knew exactly what it was. All he knew was that he was gifted something by Voldemort before that night he went after the Potters, and he eventually got rid of it when the Ministry was making raids for Dark artefacts. The diary possessed Ginny the more that she wrote in it, using her as a puppet in opening the Chamber again.”

“But Harry destroyed it,” Draco said. “So the diary isn’t a Horcrux anymore.”

“Yes. It seems that Voldemort’s hard work has gone to waste, in this regard.” Examining the diary with vague interest, Dumbledore turned it over, looking at the small golden letters stamped on the bottom. “Riddle possibly wanted to take credit the first time around, when he opened the Chamber himself...but due to what happened, he could not. He framed poor Hagrid, instead.” 

Dumbledore sighed. “If Riddle intended for the diary to be passed to, or planted on some future Hogwarts student, then he was blase about keeping the Horcrux concealed. The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux in particular seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made—or had been planning to make—more, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense.”

He looked up then, locking Draco in with his eyes. “And then two years later, you came to my office that first night of term, and you told me the tale that Voldemort regaled you and the rest of his followers with. The statement he made, Draco, do you remember what it was that he said?”

It took the teenager a few moments to remember, wracking his brain to try and conjure as much accuracy as he could. “He said, ‘I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality.’ Or something close to that.”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore said, and his eyes began to blaze. “And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes--Horcruxes in the plural, Draco, which I don’t believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fits: Lord Voldomort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he had undergone seemed to me to be only explainable if his soul was mutated beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’...” 

“So he’s...made himself immortal, by murdering all those people?” Draco asked, disgusted. “Why go to such despicable lengths? He could have used other means--” History of Magic darted through his mind, of all things. “Why not make himself a Sorcerer’s Stone, like Flamel, or steal one?”

“Well, he did attempt to do just that, five years ago,” Dumbledore remarked with a faint smile, making Draco blink. He’d never asked Hermione and Ron the details of the strange adventures from their first year; it seemed he would definitely need to. 

“But there are several reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer’s Stone would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort,” Dumbledore went on. “While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality. Therefore, Voldemort would be entirely dependant on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course, he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking Harry as an infant, but only to regain a body.”

The older wizard nodded slowly. “Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to rely on his Horcruxes. He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see...or as close to immortal as any man can be.

“But now, Draco, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than anyone has ever been before. You heard him yourself: ‘Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces...isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number...’ Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort.” 

“He made seven Horcruxes?” Draco asked, horror-struck at the thought; several of the portraits on the walls made similar noises of shock and outrage. “But they could be anywhere in the world, then—hidden—buried or invisible—” 

“I am glad to see that you appreciate the magnitude of the problem,” Dumbledore interrupted him calmly. “But firstly, no, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of his soul, however maimed, now resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he has no physical self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack—the piece that lives in his body.” 

“But the six Horcruxes, then,” Draco said, frowning as his mind raced. “How are we supposed to find them?”

“You are forgetting...I have just shown you that our dear Mr. Potter destroyed one of them.” Dumbledore gestured at the battered diary. “And I myself have destroyed another.”

“You have?” Draco asked eagerly. 

“Yes, indeed,” Dumbledore affirmed, and he raised his blackened, burned-looking hand. “The ring, Draco. Marvolo Gaunt’s ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it too. Had it not been—forgive me the lack of seemly modesty—for my own prodigious magical skill, and for Professor Snape’s timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured, I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort’s soul. The ring is no longer a Horcrux.” 

“But how did you find it?” Draco was going to have to compliment Severus for his talent. Or perhaps not--he had no idea if Dumbledore would want his godfather to be aware of the things that they covered during these meetings.

“Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to discover as much as I can about Voldemort’s past life,” Dumbledore replied. “I have traveled widely, visiting those places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunt’s house. It seems that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul inside it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been carted off to Azkaban, of course), never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical concealment.

“However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. Harry destroyed the diary, and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, then four Horcruxes remain.” 

“And they could be anything?” Draco asked, trying to comprehend. “They could be, say, in tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion bottles...” 

“You are thinking of Portkeys, Draco, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard his own precious soul? You are forgetting what I have showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history. His pride, his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history...these things suggest to me that Voldemort would have chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor.” 

“The diary wasn’t that special.” Draco glanced at the book again, trying to see if he’d missed something about it. It was only rendered important by Riddle’s choice to use it, wasn’t it?

“The diary, as you noted yourself, was proof that he was the Heir of Slytherin. I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance.” 

“So, the other Horcruxes?” Draco asked next. “Do you think you know what they are, sir?” 

“I can only guess,” Dumbledore replied. “For the reasons I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort’s past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have disappeared around him.” 

“The locket!” Draco realized abruptly, sitting up straight, “And Hufflepuff’s cup!” 

“Yes,” Dumbledore confirmed, smiling proudly at him. “I would be prepared to bet—perhaps not my other hand, but a couple of fingers--that they became Horcruxes three and four. The remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort’s imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw’s. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe.” 

Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers back at the wall behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed within a glass case. “Do you think that’s why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts, sir?” Draco asked. “To try and find something from one of the other founders?” 

“My thoughts precisely,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “But unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, without the chance to search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two—he may have found three—and that is the best we can do for now.” 

“Even if he got something of Ravenclaw’s or Gryffindor's, that still leaves a sixth Horcrux,” Draco said, counting it out on his fingers. “Unless he’s got both?”

“I don’t think so,” Dumbledore mused. “I think I know what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about the behavior of the snake, Nagini?” 

“Nagini?” Draco echoed, startled. “What--you can use _animals_ as Horcruxes?” 

“Well, it is inadvisable to do so,” Dumbledore allowed, “because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered the Potters’ house with the intention of killing little Harry. He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths...and Harry would certainly have been that.”

The Headmaster frowned. “He believed that in killing Harry, he was destroying the danger that had been brought to his attention through an incompletely relayed prophecy. He believed he was making himself fully and truly invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with Harry’s death. As we know, he failed.”

He shrugged. “After an interval of some years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her into his final Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort’s mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth.” 

“He does,” Draco confirmed. “I--now that I understand Parseltongue, sir, I’ve heard them speaking before, when I’m at the Manor.” He saw Dumbledore’s eyebrows rise, surprise and curiosity in his wise gaze, and the teenager sighed. “Nagini genuinely loves him, from what I’ve seen and heard. As for him...yes. Fondness is an applicable word.”

There was a long pause as they both considered all that they had learned, and Draco leaned back in his armchair. “So,” he said slowly, “the diary’s gone, the ring’s gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once Ravenclaw’s or Gryffindor’s?” 

“An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes,” Dumbledore confirmed, bowing his head in acknowledgment. 

“So...are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where you’ve been going when you’ve been leaving the school?” 

“Correct,” Dumbledore said promptly. “I have been looking for a very long time. I think... perhaps...I may be close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs.” 

“And if you do,” Draco said carefully, “can I come with you and help get rid of it?” 

Dumbledore looked at Draco very intently for a moment before saying, “Yes, I think so.” 

“I can?” Draco said, taken slightly aback; he hadn’t been sure that the Headmaster would agree. 

“Oh yes,” Dumbledore replied, smiling slightly. “I think that you have more than earned that right.” 

Draco felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear words of caution and protection for once. The headmasters and headmistresses around the walls seemed less impressed by Dumbledore’s decision; Draco saw a few of them shaking their heads, and one of the men even snorted actually snorted. 

“Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?” Draco asked, ignoring the portraits and keeping his attention on Dumbledore.

“A very interesting question, Draco. I believe not. I believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself have been detached for so long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the point of death, he might become aware of his loss...but he was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been destroyed until he forced the truth out of your father. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was terrible to behold.”

Draco shuddered at the thought; if that had occurred when he was at the Manor, he had not been made to witness it. “But I thought he meant my father to smuggle it into Hogwarts?” he asked, confused. 

“Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create more Horcruxes...but still, Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemort’s say-so, and he never received it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving him the diary. No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do  anything with the Horcrux other than guard it carefully, but he was counting too much upon Lucius’s fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom Lucius believed dead.

“Of course, Lucius did not know what the diary really was. I understand that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius known he held a portion of his master’s soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with substantially more reverence—but instead he went ahead and carried out the original plan, for his own ends. By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasley’s daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur, and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one stroke.”

Draco winced, grateful to his soul that Harry had somehow managed to protect Ginny, even though he had only been a child of twelve. “Ah, poor Lucius...” Dumledore continued. “What with Voldemort’s fury over the fact that he threw away the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would not be surprised if he is not very pleased to be stuck at the Manor for the time being.”

Draco cringed, but he did not remark on that. He sat in thought for a moment, then asked, “So if all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort can be killed? Truly killed, once and for all?” 

“Yes, I think so,” Dumbledore said simply. “Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man, with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without his Horcruxes.” 

“Does that mean....will it be you, who kills him in the end?” Draco asked, confused. “I mean, I know that I’ve taken this all on...willingly, and I intend to see it through to the end, but I...I haven’t got uncommon skill and power,” he said uncertainly. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you have,” Dumbledore corrected him gently. “You have a power that Voldemort has never had. You can love.” Dumbledore looked at Draco over the top of his spectacles, eyes glinting. “Which, given everything that has happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing. I do not believe that you even remotely understand just how unusual you really are, Draco.” 

“So...before, you told me that...that Voldemort Marking me, it set me apart the same way that his attempt to kill Harry as a baby did for him. It made a different kind of connection between me and Voldemort than it has for any of his willing followers. That difference, the power that he unintentionally gave to me that will allow me to destroy him...it just means—love?” Draco asked, trying to clarify the mess in his head.

“Yes—’just’ love,” Dumbledore said softly. “But Draco...never forget that all of this is because Voldemort  _ made _ it so. Voldemort marked you believing that he was making use of someone who posed no threat whatsoever to him, and by doing so, he instead made you the person who would be most dangerous to him of all.” 

“I don’t understand,” Draco admitted, struggling. “Harry--Voldemort marked  _ him _ because of a prophecy, and isn’t that completely different--more powerful--than what happened to me--?”

“No,” Dumbledore said at once, short and sharply. “You are setting too much store by the prophecy, Draco.” He shook his head, rising and beginning to pace slowly. “If Voldemort had never heard of that prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy ever uttered by a genuine Seer has been fulfilled?” 

“But--” Draco frowned, more and more bewildered, “It still has to happen this way, now, I--or, well, someone still  _ has _ to kill him, don’t--”

“Yes; only because Voldemort made a grave error, and acted on the words of that prophecy! If Voldemort had never murdered all of these innocents, would he have imparted in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not! If he had not forced you to watch him transform your own home into a palace of torments and darkness, would you have ever realized the depth of his evil, and abandoned all that you had been trained to believe in, to stand up for what is right?”

Draco could hardly breathe, staring back at Dumbledore as the Headmaster continued speaking, staring down at him with more fire in his blue gaze than the teenager thought he’d ever seen there. 

“And if he had not forced the Mark upon you, Draco...would he have given you a magical protection that he could not penetrate? And that, unbeknownst to him, turns the tide and grants you power against him that he never fathomed? Of course not, Draco! Don’t you see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back! Voldemort is no different! Always he was on the lookout for any who would challenge him.

“He heard the prophecy and he leapt into action, with the result that he not only handpicked the man most likely to finish him--Harry--but he handed him uniquely deadly weapons!” 

“But—” 

“And perhaps, in finally succeeding at murdering Harry and restoring himself to a physical body, he might have mended his own errors and reclaimed the momentum that he had previously had...but by selecting  _ you  _ next, Voldemort himself singled out the equally remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and once more blindly handed him the tools for the job! It is Voldemort’s fault that you are now granted insights into his thoughts, his ambitions; that you even understand the snakelike language in which he gives orders.”

Dumbledore paused in his agitated pacing, holding Draco’s gaze. “And yet, Draco, despite your privileged insight into Voldemort’s world (which, incidentally, is a gift any willing Death Eater would kill to have), you have never been fully seduced by the Dark Arts. You have not, once you saw the truth about who and what Voldemort is, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort’s sincere followers!”

“Of course I haven’t,” Draco said tiredly, his frown deepening. “He’s a monster. A murderer, a psychopath. He’s a bloody sadist and he’s ruined thousands of lives for no reason other than greed and power-lust. He’s repulsive”

“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love,” Dumbledore reiterated firmly. “The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like Voldemort’s! In spite of the beliefs that you were raised with; despite all the temptations you have endured, and all of the suffering, you remain pure of heart. You are armored by your choice to protect the people you care about, and your unceasing loyalty and devotion to them.”

The older man sighed, seeming to relax a little at last. “Lord Voldemort will never be able to understand, Draco...he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to even try to understand the incomparable power of a soul that is untarnished and whole.” 

“But, sir,” Draco said slowly, trying not to sound argumentative as he struggled to grasp all of this. “In the end, it all comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? I’ll...I’ll have to try and kill him, or—” 

“Have to?” Dumbledore repeated, eyebrows rising. “Of course you will have to. But not because of some prophecy, or because the boy who it spoke of is dead, or because of the Mark on your arm or the creature who placed it there.” 

He shook his head. “It will be because you, yourself, will never rest until you’ve tried! We both know that. Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you had never known about Harry Potter and his tragic tale, if you had never come to see the value and innocence and strength of the friends and family who he surrounded himself with--and who have now embraced you so completely. Even if all that you ever knew about him was what you have witnessed since his return, what he has said and done within the walls of your own childhood home. How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think.”

Draco watched Dumbledore as the Headmaster resumed striding back and forth in front of him, and he obeyed, and thought. 

He thought of his own mother, and his father. Draco thought of James and Lily Potter murdered in their home at just twenty-one-years-old, and of Sirius Black, betrayed and tricked, and locked away for over a decade after losing his best friends...and being blamed for that. 

Draco thought of Cedric Diggory, dying alongside Harry in a cold and lonely cemetery, far away from their home and their friends and loved ones, treated as if all that they were, all that they would have become had they lived, meant nothing compared to one twisted, corrupt man’s quest for power over the entire wizarding world. A quest that he had no remorse about murdering  _ children _ in order to finish it.

He thought of every single terrible deed that he knew Lord Voldemort had ever committed, before and since taking over Draco’s own home. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat.

“I’d want him finished,” Draco replied quietly, looking up to meet Dumbledore’s eyes now. He saw the fire that he felt within himself, reflected in the older wizard’s gaze. “And I’d want to do it.” 

“Of course you would!” Dumbledore agreed fiercely. “You see, none of this means that you  _ have _ to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark Harry Potter as his equal...and now, he has repeated the exact same mistake, with another boy, and another Mark. You are free to choose your own way, quite free to turn your back on all of this! But Voldemort continues to set store by that old prophecy, and by the realities that only exist  _ because _ of his conviction in them. He will continue as he always has, without ceasing, without regret...which makes it certain, really, that—” 

“That one of us is going to end up killing the other, eventually,” Draco murmured. To his surprise, the intensity of this realization, and hearing his own voice speaking the words, did not fill him with any fear. “Yes.” 

But he understood at last, Draco thought, what Dumbledore was trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew— _ and so do I _ , Draco thought, with a rush of fierce pride,  _ and so did Harry Potter _ —that there was all the difference in the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale is heating up!


	23. Inside a Smile I’m Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Right before his lips touched hers, Draco paused for one more millisecond, as if offering one last opportunity for her to pull away. Or perhaps he was just savoring what was coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have been so patient and eager--this one's for you. ;)

The term was winding down, time passing unavoidably by. The Transfiguration assignment had been invaluable as a cover for spending time together; but they would eventually need to actually turn it in, and beyond the final due date, there would be no justification for meeting openly, where unwanted eyes could see them. 

They had one last session--Hermione’s perfectionist instincts came through at last, and she actually did spend a good hour or so pouring over her and Draco’s essay to ensure that she was pleased with their final product. There was a sense of gloom over the group as they added last minute corrections and additions, because after this it would be back to skulking in corners and warily watching the door of the Prefects’ bathroom.

“Well, there’s still the Room of Requirement,” Ron pointed out reasonably, keeping his voice low as Pansy squinted at their essay. “Much easier to sneak up there for meetings without all that Inquisitorial Squad nonsense.”

Hermione finally set down her quill, rubbing her eyes tiredly before blinking and looking at Draco. “Oh--that reminds me, you said you got it, but--well, tell us everything.”

That effectively paused the homework for a time. Draco explained the entirety of what had gone down while he was under the influence of Felix Felicis, from encountering Slughorn to the Potions master joining him at Hagrid’s, the burial, and his subsequent success in persuading the intoxicated professor to give up the unedited memory. Then he shared the contents of the recollection, and as he had expected, the others were thoroughly and appropriately repulsed by the truth about Horcruxes.

“I can’t believe someone was ever evil enough to  _ discover _ such a thing,” Hermione said, horrified. “And that Voldemort made them--any at all, but  _ six _ ! Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

Draco glanced at Ron, not wanting to distress the redhead; but they needed to know that some of Voldemort’s creations had already been destroyed. “Dumbledore knows some of them--and two are already destroyed. Marvolo Gaunt’s ring...he got that one, himself, and that’s how his hand was cursed.” The others gasped. Draco swallowed, and pressed on. “And...the diary from his teenage years. Tom Riddle’s diary, the one that...”

“....Harry destroyed. Second year.” Ron’s face was pale as death. “It--I mean, I know Dumbledore told us that it possessed Ginny, but--you mean to say--it was _actually_ _him_ \--”

“It was Voldemort possessing her, yes,” Draco said softly. “He was the Heir. But it’s alright, Ron, that’s ancient history--and Ginny’s fine now.” Ron looked as if he wasn’t so sure, moving his hands restlessly as if he was struggling to process; he didn’t seem to register that he was holding his wand, moving it around absentmindedly.

“Ron, you’re making snow,” Pansy said dryly, reaching out to push his hand down onto the table. 

“Oh--right,” Ron said, blinking in surprise. “Whoops. Now you look like you’ve got dandruff.” He brushed the snowflakes from her hair and shoulders for her, and Pansy blushed, giggling.

Ginny appeared between the bookshelves, making her way over to them with a visibly weary slump in her posture. “Ron, we’ve got an unscheduled practice tonight,” she informed her brother, reaching up to tie her long red hair back into a ponytail. “Katie’s back from St. Mungo’s, and she told Angelina that she wants to dive right back into normalcy. Which, of course, made Angelina look like it’s Christmas again.”

Hermione was eyeing Ginny with concern. “Are you alright?” she asked softly. “You look tired, are you sure you should go to practice?”

“Oh, flying will make me feel loads better,” Ginny replied, waving that off. “And yes, I’m fine--me and Dean split up, so that’s been awkward all day. Makes me triply glad that Katie’s back, as it means he’s back to being reserve for the team.”

“Katie is back?” Draco echoed, coming out of his thoughts as he registered at last what they were talking about. “What--when did that happen?”

Ginny shrugged. “She got back to the castle this morning. They’re not rushing her into returning to classes, but she said that she wants to get back into the rhythm of things without too much fuss.” Seeing the look that Draco and Hermione traded, Ginny sighed. “I don’t imagine she’d be too brassed off if you wanted to ask her about what happened. She was given the option of taking her meals in private for a while, but she refused, so she’ll be in the Great Hall.”

Sure enough, when they trooped downstairs for lunch, Katie was at the Gryffindor table--and she was absolutely the center of attention for most of the school. 

Draco, Pansy, and Theo seated themselves carefully along the middle of the Slytherin table, so that they were able to overhear when Hermione and Ron asked Katie for a moment, and sat down with her parallel to the three Slytherins.

“We’re so glad that you’re back,” Hermione began, and Katie smiled at her gratefully. 

“Leanne told me that you guys were there--and that you went and got Hagrid, to get me back here,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough. I know I was lucky that I barely touched the thing, but Madam Pomfrey said it definitely also helped how quickly I was brought in.”

Hermione’s brow was pinched with intense focus. “And that necklace...can you remember who gave it to you now?” 

“No,” Katie replied, shaking her head ruefully. “Everyone’s been asking me, but I haven’t got a clue. The last thing I remember was walking into the ladies’ in the Three Broomsticks.” 

“You definitely went into the bathroom, then?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice low.

“Well, I know I pushed open the door,” Katie said slowly, “so I suppose whoever Imperiused me was standing just behind it. After that, my memory’s a blank until about two weeks ago in St. Mungo’s. I’m sorry, guys. I’ve got to eat now, I want to make sure I’m in class on time.” Hermione and Ron nodded, shifting up the table to join Ginny and leave Katie in peace with her friends.

Draco poked mindlessly at his potatoes, his mind disturbed. Glancing at Pansy and Theo, he spoke softly. “I don’t think that Katie encountered the person who was actually behind the attack,” he told him. “I think that whoever it was, they cursed Madam Rosmerta first--and she was the one who gave Katie the package in the bathroom.” 

He set his fork down, his stomach churning too much to think about eating, now. “And that means that we could be dealing with any of the dozens of people who were in the Three Broomsticks that day.”

Pansy looked perplexed, and even a little frightened, which was unusual for her. “Do you...do you have any idea if the Dark Lord has another student ‘agent’ here at Hogwarts?” she asked in a near-whisper. “Maybe he gave someone else the same task that you have, to make sure it gets done? Or--or perhaps he’s targeting someone else?”

“Maybe the poisoned mead that Ron got really had been for Slughorn,” Theo added, nodding. “If someone realized, like Hermione said, that Slughorn would keep something that fancy for himself.”

Draco’s fingers closed into fists without conscious thought. The Unbreakable Vow kept him from confiding even in his Slytherin friends, and he despised the weight of the burden that Voldemort had placed on his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said finally, unable to say anything else. “Fuck, I don’t know. And that scares me to death.”

Theo drummed his fingers on the table. “Maybe taking more Felix would help?”

Draco sighed and shook his head. “I’ve been thinking that I need to save the rest of it,” he admitted. “For whenever Dumbledore asks me to go with him. Could definitely use some perfect luck when hunting down Horcruxes.”

“Couldn’t we make some more?” Pansy asked. “It’d be great to have a stock of it, given everything we’re up against...”

Pulling his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag, Draco looked up Felix Felicis, and grimaced. “It’s fairly complicated,” he said regretfully, running an eye down the list of ingredients. “I’d be able to do it, certainly, but it takes six months...you’ve got to let it stew.” 

“Typical,” Theo said dryly. “Well, maybe in the future we make some just to have it. Meanwhile, we’d best finish eating and get upstairs to class...”

As May rolled in, the Quidditch Cup Championship became the school-wide obsession, as it did every spring. Ron, Ginny, and Katie were constantly in practice, and Theo and Blaise were kept equally busy on the Slytherin team.

The Transfiguration essays were at last turned in, but Draco and Pansy wound up spending most of their free time in the library anyway, given the looming awareness of their N.E.W.Ts hanging overhead. Hermione took over the table that Ron and Pansy had previously shared, enabling her to remain close by; but they were unable to really talk, even then, and it had all of their spirits a bit low.

One afternoon as Draco and Pansy were sitting there quietly studying, Draco startled a bit when someone touched his shoulder; he looked up, frowning when he saw no one there. 

“It’s me.” Hermione’s voice was a whisper, and Draco saw the air shift slightly. “I’m wearing Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. I went to Dumbledore this morning to ask his thoughts on how we might continue working all together, and he gave it to me.” The chair beside Draco slid back a little, making Pansy jump, and Draco couldn’t help grinning as he explained what was happening to her.

“That’s bloody brilliant,” Pansy murmured. “Merlin, that’ll come in handy.”

“We’d intended to lend it to Draco all along, well-before now,” Hermione admitted. “This works out just as well, though. I can just sit here between the Draco and the bookshelves, so no one can accidentally brush against me.”

It was infinitely more pleasant to be able to study all together again. Hermione stayed under the Cloak whenever they met, either working on N.E.W.T.’s preparation or reading. She and Draco always took the same side of the table, and he sat close enough that they were almost constantly touching to some degree, shielding her from anyone passing by at any given time. Every time that their shoulders or elbows rubbed together, Draco felt warmed from his head to his feet.

This new routine made all of the things stressing Draco out feel substantially less horrible. Pansy would occasionally abandon them to go watch Quidditch practices--showing House solidarity for Theo and Blaise, and braving the confused and skeptical sidelong looks to watch Ron--and Draco quickly found those days to be even nicer, just him and Hermione.

He had noticed, and therefore accidentally become obsessed with the fact, that the protection of the Invisibility Cloak resulted in Hermione touching him far more freely than she ever had before. Every brush of her fingers made his heart feel like it was flying, or free-falling.

Amidst the morning mail one day, Orion fluttered down among the flurry of owls to offer Draco a letter bearing the Malfoy family seal. Draco frowned, tucking it into his bag for later in case its contents were not safe to risk someone reading over his shoulder. 

After classes ended for the day, he retreated to the dungeons to read it by the common room fireplace. It was from his mother, to his relief.

_ Darling, _

_ I know that you’re buried in N.E.W.T.’s studying at this point in the year...I am thinking of you daily. I know that you will excel. Make sure that you rest your mind as often as you study, you don’t want to overwhelm yourself. _

_ Things have changed a little, at home. Your aunt now lives at the Manor full-time, rather than being out on...errands...more often than not. _

Draco frowned, both at the fact that his mother would write that so directly, and at hearing that he would be subjected to even more of Bellatrix’s presence than he had been previously, when he went home for the summer. Merlin, he wasn’t sure he would survive another three months cooped up in the dark, grim Manor with that woman hovering around every corner.

_ I’ve included a note from her. She wishes to communicate with you more frequently--she says that you will know the reason why--but we thought it wiser to conceal her message within one from me. Please let me know that you’re doing alright, my dragon. _

_ All my love, _

_ Mother _

Sighing, Draco folded the letter and set it aside; at least it was safe to keep a note from his mother. Taking out the second, shorter page, Draco unfolded it to find his aunt’s much spikier penmanship.

_ Nephew--Burn this upon reading. Fenrir has been placed at Borgin & Burke’s full-time, so any time that you work on your task, rest assured that someone is there to monitor the “item” and is prepared to respond as the repairs proceed. _

Draco’s mind suddenly filled with the image of the little yellow-white bird lying on the floor of the Vanishing Cabinet, and he sucked in a hard breath, abruptly feeling lightheaded. He should have practiced with more bloody apples first--or something equally inanimate, harmless, non-fatal to any innocent creature. He despised himself for his impatience.

_ The Dark Lord is very pleased with your performance, Draco. Keep your head held high. _

Staring at the words with mingled sorrow and loathing, Draco did not register footsteps approaching him. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Crabbe was suddenly standing in front of him, snatching the parchment from his fingers and reading it before Draco could grab it back from him.

“Ha,” the bulkier boy scoffed. “Hard to believe the Dark Lord’s  _ pleased _ when you’re not doing a bloody thing. Seems like you’ve just been doing your schoolwork and playing up being a good little boy. You don’t even take jabs at the mudblood or the blood traitors anymore--and that’s just sodding  _ fun _ , not duty.”

Draco stood swiftly, scowling at Crabbe as he yanked the note from Bellatrix back. “I’m perfectly on top of things,” he snapped back irritably. “And it doesn’t concern  _ you _ anyway.”

The cruel grin that Crabbe gave him made Draco’s blood turn cold. “You may  _ think _ you have things under control,” Crabbe retorted, his eyes glittering maliciously. “But it’s been clear to me from the start that you’re just as weak as your father--you’re certainly not good enough to serve the Dark Lord.” His expression darkened slightly. “You don’t deserve that Mark on your arm."

It felt as if Draco’s lungs were imploding on themselves. “How do you know about that?” he asked coldly. “You weren’t there. You’re not--that was a private--”

Crabbe’s face twisted with derision. “I’ve been a little more dedicated to our case than you seem to be,” he said scornfully. “At least  _ I’ve  _ been making my father proud in the service of our master. The Crabbes aren’t getting our arses thrown into Azkaban, or just sitting around Hogwarts doing absolutely nothing of use.”

It was taking every ounce of Draco’s will power to appear aloof, and not terrified. “And just what have you done in the Dark Lord’s service?” he asked harshly, but Crabbe merely laughed darkly.

“Don’t you worry,” he said with a savage smirk. “The only people in any danger are those who stand in the Dark Lord’s way.” Without another word, the bigger boy skulked away, chuckling darkly and leaving Draco standing, trembling, in front of the fire.

He was shaken to his very core. Unable to bring himself to face anyone, Draco missed Defense Against the Dark Arts, and then a library meeting with Pansy, Theo, and Hermione.

The exchange had him almost completely certain, suddenly and fearfully, that Crabbe was the one behind the attacks. He had to have been the one to give Slughorn the poisoned mead, and to get the cursed necklace into Katie’s hands by first cursing Madam Rosmerta. His father had been present at the Manor when Draco was inducted, and when he had received his orders regarding Dumbledore’s intended assasination; the older man must have decided to rope his son into trying to come out ahead of Draco in the task.

All Draco could feel was panic. 

He was far less in control of his own already-precarious situation than he had ever realized, and it was not through any mistake of his own. The Death Eaters were scheming amongst themselves, acting out in desperation to fulfill Voldemort’s bidding without bringing his wrath down on their own heads. If Crabbe was behind the attacks, then he was acting without orders or permission, and he was completely at ease with his choices harming innocents.

Draco had no way to know where danger would be coming from next. And that meant that he was inadequately prepared to protect his friends. He didn’t even know how many people posed a legitimate threat to them. Hermione, Ron, the rest of the DA--all of his  _ friends _ \--they were all at risk.

He was walking more or less mindlessly along a corridor when the sixth years’ Defense Against the Dark Arts class let out, the classroom door opening at the far end of the hall. Draco stopped in his tracks as he registered Crabbe and Goyle’s voices, audible among the students pouring out of the room.

Turning on his heel, Draco went for the first door he saw, ducking into the nearest bathroom. He was panting suddenly, sweat making his hands slip on the door handle; distantly, Draco was aware that he was on the verge of collapsing into a panic attack. He needed to rein this in; he couldn’t risk being anywhere near Crabbe without appearing unaffected by his taunts. Draco tugged his tie loose and pulled it off, trying to breathe, bracing one hand on the edge of the sink and splashing a little cool water on his face.

“Draco?”

He jolted in surprise, lifting his head to find Hermione reflected in the mirror as she hesitated near the door, staring at his back with raw concern on her face. She closed the door more firmly behind herself, then crossed the room to stand beside him, her expression pinched with worry. “What’s happened?”

Draco did not know how to even begin to tell her, to describe the terror pulsing through his veins.

“I’m so scared,” he finally choked out, feeling as if an enormous weight was crushing his chest, limiting his lungs. “I--I’m afraid we won’t pull this off. I’m scared I’m going to fail you all, that--that we’re going to lose.”

Hermione made a tiny noise of sorrow, taking his arm and pulling him around and forward, enveloping him in a tight hug. Despite being smaller than him, her embrace was secure, one hand rising to stroke her fingers tenderly through his hair. Draco melted for a moment, simply accepting the comfort of Hermione’s touch.

“We’re not going to fail,” she murmured soothingly, with such conviction that Draco thought he might actually believe her. “We have Dumbledore, and the entire Order of the Phoenix--Snape and McGonagall are right here at Hogwarts, and the rest can be called to help us so very quickly. Look what happened at the Ministry, we can rally when we need to.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “And most importantly, we have one another. That isn’t a small thing, Draco. We’re going to succeed--together."

The certainty in her voice, and the consistent warmth and gentleness of her arms around him and her fingers in his hair, were working wonders to calm Draco’s racing heart and thoughts. She sounded so completely sure of what she was telling him.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered eventually. He shuddered as he finally felt like oxygen was getting into his blood again, lungs expanding properly at last. “Would’ve been fucked without you, there.”

Hermione let out a breathless little laugh, letting him draw back enough for their eyes to meet but not letting go of him completely. “I think you would have managed. But I’m glad I spotted you darting in here. I hate for you to ever struggle alone, not when you don’t have to.” Her arms slipped down a little, bringing her hands from his shoulder and the back of his head around to cradle his face between her palms. “I’ll make some more Protean Charm coins, just for you and me. So you can tell me when you need help. We can meet in the Prefects’ bathroom, or the Room of Requirement.”

That she was willing to do that--to be there for him when the stress rose too high, and to make herself exclusively accessible--made Draco’s breath catch. “I definitely don’t deserve everything that you do for me,” he said lightly, feeling her fingers warm against his skin as he spoke.

She smirked in response. “Most people don’t, but you’re all stuck with me taking care of you, anyway.” She brushed a stray strand of his hair back from his eyes, her expression tender, then returned her hand to cupping his cheek.

Draco suddenly realized just how close they were standing; his hands had settled on Hermione’s waist, and he could smell the faint trace of vanilla that always surrounded her. He didn’t know if it was her shampoo, or soap, or perhaps a perfume, but it was as soft and lovely as she was, herself.

His eyes fell to her lips, and as if it was a physical caress, they parted with a soft inhalation. When he met her eyes again, there was a shine there that he recognized without ever having seen it before--permission. Anticipation, perhaps even eagerness.

He lifted one hand to cup her chin between his thumb and fingers; Hermione’s hands dropped to his chest, resting flat over his heart before her fingers curled a little into the fabric of his shirt, as if steadying herself. Seeing her eyelashes flutter a little at the touch of his hand to her face, Draco felt as if he had been abruptly made invincible, unbreakable. Nothing could touch them, or ruin this moment.

Right before his lips touched hers, Draco paused for one more millisecond, as if offering one last opportunity for her to pull away. Or perhaps he was just savoring what was coming.

Her mouth was so soft. Hermione let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, pressing up to meet the kiss and simultaneously tightening her hold on his shirt, pulling him in closer. 

Draco had imagined this so many hundreds of times--and the reality made every fantasy, every daydream, pale into nothingness by comparison. She was loose and pliant against him, letting Draco lead the kiss, but she was so responsive. When he felt her tongue brush against his lips, Draco inhaled sharply, and he took the leap; he deepened the kiss slowly, memorizing the shape and texture of her mouth, and absorbing every sound that Hermione let out, immortalizing them in his mind forever.

At some point he registered that he was getting slightly light-headed, and Draco broke the kiss, though he didn’t draw back. Hermione was breathing unevenly as well, which felt rather gratifying. Her eyes blinked open, and she stared back at him, hazel eyes wide and bright. “Wow.”

He smiled at that, nodding agreement at the succinct summary. Draco drew a breath, wanting to tell her just how long he had been waiting to do that, when a sound across the room drew his gaze past Hermione, toward the bathroom door. And his stomach dropped.

Crabbe stood there, with a look of fury on his face the likes of which Draco had never seen before. There was no denying that the other boy had seen everything--Draco in the arms of Hermione Granger, and kissing her. Not only was that a disgrace to anyone in the pureblood elite, but it meant that his work had finally been compromised. After all, no self-respecting agent of Lord Voldemort would be caught dead in the position Draco was in right now.

He only had a split second to react, because Crabbe was raising his wand. “ _ No _ !” 

Not even thinking of his own safety, he grabbed Hermione’s arms, making her cry out in shock as he shoved her to the side just as Crabbe yelled out a spell that Draco had never heard before: “ _ Sectumsempra _ !”

Agony. That was the only thing Draco felt at the curse struck him, flying where Hermione had been standing only a few precious seconds before. Agony, as his skin suddenly felt like it was being ripped open, flesh and muscle and tendon being wrenched apart, sucking the very breath out of his lungs as the upward motion of Crabbe’s wand carried the curse to catch him in the neck. The force of the curse had Draco slamming back, crashing into the sink and mirror, as the ricocheted spell caused the porcelain to crack and fall to the floor, the pipes bursting with such a force that they knocked Draco down with it. 

He collapsed, water rapidly pooling across the floor around. His hands rose to grab at his throat, fingers instantly becoming slick with hot blood. Gasping, Draco’s eyes fell downward, seeing his white shirt becoming drenched with blood, as well.

“What have you done?!” 

The voice that cried out sounded almost far away, and Draco raised his eyes, watching in horror as Crabbe didn’t even glance at him before he turned his wand onto Hermione again. She wrenched hers out as well, and when he fired the next curse, she thrust her wand out, casting a wordless Shield Charm and sending the curse upward to crash into the ceiling, a deep crack running along the stonework. Before anything else could be said, Hermione cast another wordless spell, and the loosened stone came tumbling down, knocking Crabbe to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Now that the threat was out of the way, Hermione rushed to Draco’s side, falling to her knees as she looked to him in a panic. “Oh Merlin!” she gasped. “Draco!”

He tried to speak, tried to open his mouth. His hands were shaking as he attempted to staunch the bleeding from his neck, but all he could do was choke on the blood. “H-Hermione,” he wheezed.

“ _ Help _ !” Hermione screamed towards the doorway. “Help, somebody, _please help_!”

It felt like ages; but in reality it mere seconsd, as Hermione did what she could to stop the bleeding, ripping his shirt open and giving a small cry of horror when she saw the state of his chest. Draco looked down, seeing that he looked like mince meat. Deep, disturbingly clean wounds had been slashed into his flesh, and every time he moved, they seemed to cut deeper, become even longer, before Hermione pressed him back onto the floor. 

“Don’t move,” she said shakily. “Don’t, Draco--”

The door slammed open, and Severus appeared. He balked for a second at the chaos in the bathroom, before those deep black eyes caught sight of his godson, and his face paled at once. Rushing forward, he knelt on Draco’s other side, reaching to gently support his head as he pulled out his wand. 

As Hermione sat back, now mute from shock, Severus started moving his wand up and down Draco’s chest, his voice murmuring out a spell that sounded almost like a lullaby in his low, soothing voice.

“Vulnera Sanentur,” the Potions master murmured softly, and Draco wheezed again as he felt the spell take effect, his skin growing cold as the blood flow was halted, and then, surreally, reversed back into his body. “Vulnera Sanentur.” The second chant began to knit his skin back together, and Draco shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut. “Vulnera Sanentur.”

And then the darkness swallowed him whole.

As soon as the cuts had closed, Snape flicked his wand again, and the large, silvery shape of a Patronus burst forth and soared from the room and out of sight. “I am notifying Professor Dumbledore to meet us in the Hospital Wings,” Snape said, and Hermione nodded jerkily, unable to tear her eyes from Draco’s unmoving face. 

“Miss Granger.” With enormous effort, Hermione looked up at him. Snape softened marginally, his tone gentler now. “Do you know how to send your Patronus with a message?” She shook her head wordlessly, and Snape sighed. “It’s simple. Repeat my wand movements.”

Hermione obeyed mechanically, and only when she successfully summoned her beautiful gleaming otter--and at Snape’s direction, sent it on to inform Madam Pomfrey that Snape would be there shortly--did she realize that the small academic exercise had helped her focus, shaking off the cold numbing terror of seeing Draco so still and damaged. She shot Snape a grateful look, wondering if he had done that intentionally for her sake.

“Who cast the curse?” Snape asked softly, working on cleaning Draco a little more before conjuring a stretcher to move him onto.

“Cr-Crabbe,” Hermione replied, pointing over at the other unconscious Slytherin. “He, he was aiming for me, but Draco pushed me out of the way. Crabbe tried again and I deflected it--the ceiling caved in on him. I didn’t mean to hurt him...”

“He intended to kill you, so I imagine it balances itself out,” Snape replied simply. “Please go check if his head is bleeding, Miss Granger. Or any other sign of more serious injury.”

She rose on shaky legs, stumbling over and crouching to check Crabbe’s skull and neck. “No, it’s--he’s just knocked out. There will be a sizeable bruise on his forehead.”

“Very well, then leave him be.” Snape had Draco now hovering on the stretcher, and he produced a second one to place Crabbe’s limp figure on.

Hermione hesitated, then acted without wasting breath trying to run it by the professor first. She raised her wand, aiming at Crabbe’s head and silently casting the  _ Obliviate _ spell.  _ Please, Merlin, let him forget what he saw. _

Turning back to Draco, Hermione inhaled shakily, reaching out to brush his hair back from his pale face. “Is he going to be okay?”

“If I get him to Madam Pomfrey immediately,” Snape confirmed. “But it would be unwise for you to accompany me, Miss Granger--you should not be seen escorting two Slytherin students to the Hospital Wing. Go and find Mr. Weasley and tell him what’s happened, and then come along if you wish to check on Draco.”

“I will,” Hermione said at once. “I--thank you, Professor.”

Leaving the bathroom first after hastily cleaning the blood and water from her clothes, Hermione hurried downstairs, knowing that Ron would soon be finished with Quidditch practice. Before she reached the main entrance hall, Hermione stopped, another thought striking her. “Dobby?”

With a familiar  _ crack _ , the house elf appeared, looking immediately pleased to see her. “Mistress Hermione is needing Dobby’s assistance?”

“Yes--please, Dobby,” she said breathlessly. “I need you to go find Pansy Parkinson and Theo Nott--I don’t know if they’re in the Slytherin dorms or not, but you need to locate them. Tell them that Draco is going to the Hospital Wing right now. Tell them I’m going to tell Ron, and I’ll meet them there if they can come see him.”

“Yes, of course, mistress Hermione,” Dobby squeaked, looking alarmed at her intensity before he vanished with another  _ pop _ .

Ron was walking through the enormous front doors of the castle when Hermione reached the bottom of the stairs. Seeing her stricken expression, he stepped to the side at once, bracing her with a hand on her shoulder as Hermione choked out a quick summary of the incident.

“Okay--hey, breathe, it’s okay,” Ron said firmly, giving her a firm look until Hermione calmed, her breathing slowly getting steadier. “Alright. ‘Mione, go on up there--he’ll want you beside him when he wakes up.” Hermione drew a shuddering breath, nodding. “I’ve got to clean up, I stink of sweat and broomstick leather--I’ll join you there.”

A plan, a clear path of action, was enough to shake Hermione out of her frozen state. She nodded, smiling shakily before letting Ron push her towards the stairs, and she staggered off towards the Hospital Wing.

When Hermione entered, Pansy and Theo were making their way towards the door, apparently already leaving. Pansy caught Hermione’s hand, giving her fingers a comforting squeeze. “He’s going to be fine,” she murmured, and Hermione almost melted into the floor from the force of her relief. “Madam Pomfrey and Snape are taking good care of him. He’s just sleeping, now.”

Theo looked unusually grave; Hermione had never really realized how used to his sardonic smile she’d become. She certainly preferred it to how pale he was right then. “Crabbe was treated and sent off already,” Theo added. “He’s going to have detention every weekend for the remainder of the term, for attacking Draco.”

“Good,” she muttered. “Ought to be for the rest of his schooling. Or he should be expelled.” Hermione swallowed, looking over at the only occupied bed; it was curtained off for privacy. “Alright, well...thank you, both.”

“We’ll come back when we can,” Pansy promised, and she and Theo slipped out as Hermione nodded and crossed the room to Draco’s bedside.

Madam Pomfrey was bent over him, checking his pulse; when Hermione stepped around the divider, the matron straightened up, nodding a greeting at her. “Professor Snape informed me when he brought them in that you have permission to remain beyond visiting hours,” she told Hermione, looking understandably mildly confused by this fact. “I’ll arrange for the kitchen to send your meals here, if you do remain.”

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered back. “Yes, please. I’m not leaving till he wakes up, certainly.”

Shrugging, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand, and a far more comfortable-looking armchair materialized beside the bed in place of the usual, rather rigid unpadded ones. “I’ll make you some tea as well, dear.”

Hermione curled herself into the soft embrace of the chair, keeping her eyes on Draco’s face as she listened to Madam Pomfrey return to her office. 

She did not move during the night, dozing on and off, and gratefully accepting some soothing tea and then a light Sleeping Draught from Madam Pomfrey as the hours wore on with no movement or stirring from Draco. The sunrise brought Dobby, delivering a simple breakfast for Hermione and sitting with her for a short while before going back to his daily work.

Mid-morning, Pansy reappeared, hurrying over to Hermione with a focused expression. “Word’s spread all over school, of course--there’s some Slytherins on their way to check on him,” she warned Hermione. “You’d better stay in Madam Pomfrey’s office until they head off.” Hermione sighed heavily, but nodded, rising and going into the smaller room as the sound of multiple people entered the Hospital Wing.

Listening to the cracked-open door, Hermione heard Pansy and Theo greeting their various Housemates who had come by. It was a comfort to see that so many Slytherins genuinely cared; what Hermione was overhearing was not speculative or gossipy curiosity, but rather sincere concern and fretting for Draco’s recovery. Pansy and Theo handled the explanation smoothly, spinning the agreed-upon report that Crabbe had done this to Draco, his motive unknown, and then had slipped in the water from the sink that he himself had broken, knocking himself out.

After the small crowd departed, Pansy and Theo sat with Hermione for a time before leaving for their day’s classes. Hermione did not move.

Ron brought her dinner and her schoolwork for the day, and he stayed to eat with her, talking quietly as they watched Draco continue sleeping. Eventually the late hour forced Ron away, promising to return in the morning.

It was the second night when Draco finally woke. Hermione had her chin propped on her hand, debating abandoning her homework to nap a bit, when he made a groggy sound and shifted, making her snap back to wakeful attention at once. 

“What....the hell happened?” Draco asked in a disoriented mumble. “‘Mione?”

“I’m here, I’m right here,” she promised, sitting closer and taking one of his hands between both of hers. “I haven’t left your side--Merlin, Draco, I was so scared.”

He blinked, finally seeming to get his bearings, then stiffened. “Wait--are you sure it’s safe, for you to be here--?”

“Yes,” Hermione assured him, cutting off the worried line of thought. “I can absolutely manage with a few missed classes, I’m well-ahead of the workload as usual. And Pansy and Theo have been running diligent interference to ensure that no one dangerous knows I’m here. I wasn’t going to leave, not even if Dumbledore himself told me to.”

Draco snorted at that, wincing a bit as it seemed to cause some minor ache. “I’d pay to observe that argument. He’d certainly lose.” Looking up at her again, Draco smiled, some of the pain and weariness fading from his expression. “It’s comforting to wake up with you right here. I’m glad you didn’t leave.”

Hermione nodded, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand gently. A nervous knot had formed in her stomach, and Hermione swallowed, suddenly feeling a little shy. “Do you...I mean. Do you remember...anything...do you remember what happened? Before Crabbe attacked us?”

His eyebrows rose slightly, and Draco gave her a knowing little smirk. He saw right through the layer of insecurity behind which her real worry was hovering. Turning his hand over under hers, Draco interlaced their fingers, lifting her hand until he could brush a shockingly gentle kiss over her knuckles. He chuckled when she promptly blushed brightly. 

“It would take more than getting cursed to forget something as incredible as kissing Hermione Granger,” Draco murmured, deeply enjoying the way she stammered, flustered.

Surging up out of the armchair, Hermione leaned over to press her mouth against his once more. Draco relaxed into it at once, cradling her face with one hand and using all of his limited strength to push himself up on his elbow in order to meet her kiss.

They held it for a drawn-out, perfect moment before parting just enough to breathe. 

Draco’s weak attempt to sit up a little had caused the sheets to slide down his torso a little, and Hermione’s eyes drifted downward--and then she caught her breath. Following her gaze, Draco sighed when he saw the extensive bandaging that wound around his body from his collarbone, down his chest, and even over some of his stomach.

“Severus stopped it from killing me,” he whispered, sinking back into the pillows. Neither of them moved to cover him again; the bandages held Hermione’s gaze as if riveted. “I was awake for a very short bit, when he brought me here. Madam Pomfrey did all that she could to reduce the scarring, but there’s going to be some.” Draco touched the edge of the material wound around his torso, his face twisting. “I suppose that’s not the worst thing that could have happened.”

Hermione smiled faintly, the expression both sad, and a touch amused. She lifted her hand up, palm towards herself; in the soft lantern- and moonlight, Draco could clearly see the vague white lines of long-faded words etched in the flesh. “Scars are old hat for us,” Hermione reminded him, and Draco couldn’t help chuckling.

Reaching up to take the hand she was holding out, he pressed a kiss over the scars, watching her as she blushed again, her eyes a bit shiny, though he could tell it was from happier emotions than bad ones, now. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Like some... _ very _ strange badges of honor.”

“They show we’re surviving whatever they’re throwing at us,” she agreed. “We have so far, and we’ll keep on doing so.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “That we will.”

They were both quiet for several minutes, listening to the distant ticking of the tower clock. Hermione’s fingers closed around his again, her thumb absently rubbing small circles and infinity loops over his knuckles, and Draco found it soothing to the point of nearly putting him right back to sleep, despite having been unconscious for several hours already. 

He glanced around the hospital wing, his gaze passing over the bed where Ron had lain in the aftermath of his unexpected poisoning, and Draco nearly smiled at the role reversal. The Gryffindor boy had brushed death and then come back, recovering with a Slytherin girl at his bedside, and now it was Draco’s turn to lay there, healing slowly, while a Gryffindor girl held his hand tightly.

A fractured thought crossed his mind, and Draco suddenly frowned. He always loved making Hermione blush, but there was one scrap of memory in which it had not been a pleasant achievement.

“Hermione?” Her gaze moved from staring dreamily out the window, where wispy clouds were drifting over the face of the moon, over to his face, expectant. “I know you said there was no note on the Valentine’s Day gift you received, but Ron had to have started babbling nonsense about being in love with the person. Why did you avoid answering me when I asked who sent the chocolates?”

It was clear from the instant he’d mentioned the Cauldron Cakes that Hermione had desperately been hoping that he’d never ask her about this. She didn’t look embarrassed this time, though, but rather deeply tired, and perhaps a touch stern.

“Look, I know it’ll torment you, so I’ll answer you,” she replied, speaking slowly. “But you have to give me your  _ word _ that you won’t overreact.” At Draco’s bewildered expression, Hermione sighed heavily. “I’ve handled it myself already, anyway. Okay?” She glanced at their linked hands as Draco’s fingers tightened, clearly seeing that she was just making him more anxious.

She drew a deep breath. “Again; I’ve handled it. I told Professor McGonagall everything, and she’s going to deal with...with McLaggen.”

“ _ What _ ?” Draco almost sat up before pain lanced through his torso, and he had to drop back down as Hermione rose to make sure that he hadn’t worsened his injuries. “Hermione--that’s, he tried to--”

“I know, I  _ know _ ,” she said, pressing hard on his shoulder to physically insist on him remaining down. “Believe me, Draco, I know it’s not trivial in the slightest.” Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “But...well, honestly, Draco. You know I’m not a completely helpless damsel, or something. I have no intention of letting him get away with such a thing.” She sank back onto the edge of the armchair, letting out her breath in a long huff. “And I meant it--swear to me, you’re not going to do anything.”

Draco looked at her incredulously. “How can you ask me not to--”

“Because as much as I appreciate that you care, and that you’re protective of me, there is far more risk than there is any benefit in you doing anything to him,” Hermione cut him off firmly. “He’s not DA, Draco, he’s no friend of ours. If you attack him because he was relentless about me--”

“Relentless, that’s not just--”

“--then your safety as a spy for Dumbledore is compromised,” Hermione pressed on, talking over him firmly. “And who knows what others, what  _ Crabbe _ could do, if word got around that you retaliated against someone over a Muggleborn.” She reclaimed his hands, gripping hard. “You’ll only cause problems, and endanger yourself horrifically--and you’ve promised me over and over and over again that you will take every precaution. You’ve already sworn to me that you won’t ever be reckless about keeping your cover. That’s what this falls under, Draco.  _ Promise _ me that you will. Not. Hurt him.”

The Slytherin in him was casting about for a loophole, an alternate solution, something that he could do to quell the rage in his chest without bringing down any of the consequences that Hermione was unbearably right in pointing out. Draco scowled, but despite the depth of his anger...nothing presented itself as more logical than what Hermione had already said and done.

“....fine. I will not hex him into a coma or set his robes on fire while he’s wearing them,” Draco grit out. “What did McGonagall say she was going to do about it?”

Hermione shrugged, curling herself back into a ball in her chair and moving his hand to the armrest so that her cheek could rest against his fingers. Draco would happily keep his arm extended from the bed the entire night if she fell asleep like that. 

“Well, it isn’t going to be the first time that a student’s done something as stupid or malicious as try to slip someone a love potion. I don’t know the school policy, but when I reported it to her--I gave her the rest of the box, and Slughorn confirmed my telling her that Ron was babbling about McLaggen before taking the antidote--she took notes on it all, thanked me for knowing to come straight to her, and said it would be handled.” Hermione smiled a little sadly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m willing to trust our Deputy Headmistress that she’ll dole out the appropriate response.”

Draco grimaced, but her utter certainty and level tone were having an annoyingly calming effect on him. And now, after those surges of intense emotion...he really did suddenly feel bone-tired again. “Sleep,” Hermione whispered, and her smile softened when he glanced over at her. “Madam Pomfrey locked the hospital wing, only Dumbledore or Snape or McGonagall could enter without invitation right now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Exhaustion began to win out. Draco nodded, turning his face to remain looking at her as he closed his eyes, and Hermione began to hum quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will tell ya right now, this chapter contains the first bit of IS I actually ever typed (though that draft changed drastically by this point haha).


	24. Deeper Than the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'I believe I have found the next Horcrux,' the Headmaster told him without preamble. 'I promised that you could accompany me, and you may, if you still wish to.'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet? Can't remember but probably.

Draco managed to persuade Hermione to return to her usual routine--classes, meals, and sleeping in her own bed in Gryffindor Tower--after a few days of her refusing to leave his side. He had certainly enjoyed her constant company, but he did not want her schoolwork to be impacted; she’d brushed that concern off until he pointed out very reasonably that it would be a completely unwarranted additional stress, if it did happen, and Hermione had to concede to that.

He also didn’t want her to accidentally draw too much attention to herself with an uncharacteristic absence of regular school and life. The whole school was now aware that he was up there recovering from a severe attack. It wouldn’t take a leap of genius to connect Draco’s medical crisis with Hermione Granger being absent without leave.

Hermione had assured him that there shouldn’t be any threat of exposure, as she had Obliviated Crabbe before Snape brought the two boys to the Hospital Wing. But that didn’t stop Draco’s mind from swirling with anxiety and grim  _ what if’s _ .

Selfishly, Draco had also stalled for a day or so on encouraging Hermione to go, because now the unspoken something between them had been brought into the light. When it was just the two of them, or only Ron or Pansy or Theo visiting, Hermione sat curled in her armchair at his side and unreservedly held his hand in hers. There had also been some precious stolen kisses--though Madam Pomfrey had made clear her disapproval of  _ that _ taking place in their current environment, which meant that those moments were rare.

But they were real. And Draco no longer had to hide the way he looked at her, or stop himself from reaching for her reflexively, or caressing her fingers absently with his own. And he was never going to tire of the way that Hermione absolutely glowed each time, returning his dopey grins and squeezing his hand back and--when Madam Pomfrey was not looking--leaning in to brush chaste little kisses to his lips or cheek.

Still, on the third day of his hospitalization, he did have to insist, and she grudgingly finished sharing their breakfast and then kissed him goodbye, promising to come back by before she slept that night.

The evening of the fourth night, Madam Pomfrey informed him that she felt comfortable releasing him the following morning, though there would be no pressure to resume classes at once. Professor Snape would come to collect him. Draco felt a sense of uncertainty and looming danger all that night, his sleep restless and his dreams disturbed.

When Severus came for him, Draco left the bed without too much aching for the first time. Madam Pomfrey sent him off with a potion that he was to take nightly until it was empty, to ensure that his pain remained manageable, and then Draco was free once more.

“I’m fine going back to class,” he told Severus tiredly as they made their way slowly down through the castle, back towards the Slytherin dorms. “Really no sense in putting it off.” He touched his side as he walked, feeling the bandages still concealing the now-fully-closed wounds criss-crossing his torso. The scar tissue would fade in color, settling closer to his naturally pale skin tone; but it would never vanish completely. The bandages weren’t even necessary now, but Madam Pomfrey had left them for Draco to remove when he felt ready to do so.

He supposed he would need to be braced to see this new version of himself from now on. He couldn’t exactly avoid basic daily functions like bathing and dressing, and he wasn’t going to spend his life shying away from mirrors. “Do my parents know?”

“They had to be informed, yes,” Severus admitted. “Your mother was halfway to the door, ready to come tearing out here...”

“Did he stop her?” Draco asked softly, and his godfather knew that he was not referring to Lucius Malfoy.

“Indirectly. Professor Dumbledore left it in my hands to inform them--wisely--and so I traveled to the Manor in-person to deliver the news the morning afterward, once I knew you had woken.” Severus’ lips thinned. “We were in the smaller drawing room, but I knew that he was listening. I reported what had happened, and that you were recovering and would be alright.”

“Do they know....?”

“Yes. Your father restrained your mother and asked who attacked you. When I told them that it was Crabbe...” Severus sighed, falling quiet as they moved off of the staircases into the entrance hall, students milling about on their way to classes or study breaks. Draco did not miss the dozens of wide-eyed sidelong looks thrown his way. 

The rumor mill would be churning away wildly, today.

“There was a palpable chill in the air,” Severus continued, leading the way down to the dungeons. “We all understood the implications, but there was nothing to say aloud on the subject. So I said I would owl them when you were discharged, and that was that.”

Draco frowned. “Did  _ he _ say anything to you at all about it?”

Severus shook his head, allowing Draco to take the lead entering the boys’ dormitory. He needed to get his school things in order to return to his regular routine. “No. I imagine he’s no more concerned with Crabbe’s actions than he has shown himself to be about yours, outside of your...compliance, with his wishes.”

Swallowing hard, Draco looked over at his godfather with shadowed eyes. “Severus, I think he was the one behind those other attempts. You know what my task is. You know the plan I’ve been following and how that’s going--but I think Crabbe’s acting on his own.”

His godfather moved his hand almost imperceptibly, but Draco felt the air thicken briefly; a Silencing Charm of some kind. Draco berated himself mentally. He should have thought of that.

“It’s possible--almost certain,” Severus allowed. “But we cannot make any kind of accusation. If we are fortunate, then he has no memory of what transpired. He’ll simply have to accept the report that I walked in on him attacking you, and he knocked himself out with own reckless spellwork.”

That made Draco think once more about the curse that Crabbe had flung at him, one that he had never heard before. And when Severus had reached him, he had acted so quickly...

“How did you know how to treat it?” he asked curiously, looking back at his godfather. “I didn’t recognize the spell he used--and clearly it was some kind of intense Dark Magic, unless it’s somehow got a use that isn’t targeting human bodies. Ignoring the grim question of where  _ he _ learned it, how did you know the counter-curse?”

Severus gazed back at him in silence for a long moment, his eyes more guarded than Draco was used to ever seeing them. The closest it compared to was when he had accidentally over-corrected during their Occlumency lessons, and he had seen Lily Evans--someday to become Lily Potter--in his godfather’s memories. 

Draco abruptly felt uncomfortably aware of the fact that even Severus had secrets, and Draco did not know everything about the man who was like a second father to him.

“That...particular curse, was invented many decades ago,” Severus replied at length. “It came into use during my own years at Hogwarts, in fact. Many spells are invented entirely by accident, when clever or curious witches and wizards experiment with the laws of magic as they come to understand them through the course of their education.”

He shrugged. “I imagine that Crabbe has been exploring Dark Magic, especially given the enthusiasm that you’ve reported him showing for the changes happening in our world. He somehow stumbled upon someone’s record of that magic, and clearly deemed it a worthy addition to his bullying arsenal.”

“Bullying,” Draco repeated, his voice quiet with horror. “Is attempted murder really ‘ _ bullying _ ?’”

Severus’ face pinched. “One can hope that he did not know what the curse would do. But if he did...then yes, that goes well beyond schoolboy anger.” Sighing, he waved his wand to remove the Silencing Charm. “You’d best get to class, if you’re truly sure you wish to return immediately.” Stepping forward, the older wizard placed a gentle hand on his godson’s shoulder. “I will keep an eye on everything, Draco. You just focus on your health, and your studies.”

Draco nodded, grimacing, and shouldered his bookbag. “I will.”

He’d known that things would feel different as he came back, but Draco wasn’t entirely prepared for how the changes manifested. On one hand, knowing that there was indeed a dangerous threat within the walls of Hogwarts was terrifying, and he could still feel his heart speed up at intervals to an uncomfortable pace against his ribcage just thinking about it, about what Crabbe had done so far, and wondering what he might do next.

But at the same time…

Well, it was strange. Draco had grown up being a bully, and he knew that, and he deeply regretted it. 

After Harry and Cedric died, after Voldemort rose again, he had just...stopped being the way he used to be. He stopped antagonizing people, he stopped spreading rumors about others, he stopped sneering at anyone who looked at him in any way that he didn’t like. He just existed, and kept his head down. 

He had wondered constantly whether or not if anyone outside of the DA had even noticed his radical change in behavior.

But apparently they had. People he never spoke to before, had barely even looked at, were suddenly offering him smiles in the corridors. Several asked how he was feeling, and a couple of fourth year Hufflepuff girls offered him a tin of homemade biscuits, blushing and giggling amongst themselves. A couple of Ravenclaws had offered him help on catching up on his homework should he need it.

Even Cho Chang, whom he had refused to speak to after the brief fall of the DA thanks to Marietta Edgecomb’s blabbing, came up to him before lunch to apologize for what happened. “Marietta and I don’t talk anymore,” she admitted to him. “She’s still insistent that she did the right thing. But…I don’t know. I just wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” Draco said. “It’ll take a while for the forgiveness to set in.”

“I know.” She offered a tentative smile before heading into the Great Hall, and after a few moments of waiting, Draco followed suit.

But while quite a bit of the student body now seemed to have warmed up to Draco...most of Slytherin House was now avoiding him. The very second he sat down at one end of the table, most of his Housemates moved to sit as far away from him as possible. Several of them were no doubt following in their parents’ footsteps in supporting Voldemort. No one knew why Crabbe had attacked their formerly most-popular Housemate, but they clearly had their suspicion; and for the time being, they were apparently going to treat Draco as if he had the plague. 

The only people to sit with him, besides Theo and Pansy--who nearly crushed him in a tight hug as he returned--were Blaise, and, surprisingly, little Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s younger sister. She was a fourth year now, and growing into her own identity among the Slytherins, and she offered Draco a warm smile when she joined them at the table. “Think of it this way,” she said cheerfully. “A lot of girls fancy a man with scars. It makes them look tough.”

“Me?” he asked with some amusement. “Tough?”

“You survived a bad attack,” she pointed out. “Seems pretty tough to me.”

As for Crabbe himself, it seemed as though Hermione’s Memory Charm had done its job. He clearly had no real memory of attacking Draco, or why, though he still walked around the place like a black cloud, clearly dissatisfied that his attack hadn’t worked. The first time he and Draco made direct eye contact during the afternoon, Draco glared him down, until Crabbe, finally, had to turn away from him.

It was the first time in nearly two years that Draco had managed to intimidate the other boy into backing down, but he knew somehow that it was probably his last. 

Getting back into the pattern of attending classes was soothing, because it was familiar repetition, and it was always gratifying when he was learning. Joining his now-usual table in the Potions classroom--Hermione blushed when he took his seat near her, and Draco hid a smirk--he laid out his textbook and supplies, feeling much better now that he was back in his place.

His eyes drifted across the classroom to the other Slytherins, and Draco paused. Crabbe was hunched over into Goyle’s personal space, apparently now sharing his textbook instead of using his own. Draco’s eyes narrowed, recalling the first day of classes, when Crabbe had come without supplies and had shoved Ron out of his way to grab a book.

A cold pit settled in his stomach, wondering where the battered, used copy that Crabbe had taken was now. Draco couldn’t imagine the type of person who might really write down a Dark curse in the margins of an old book--but what if that was the case?

He was free from the Hospital Wing for a total of two days when Orion brought him an envelope with the morning mail, looking distinctly disgruntled. The letter from his mother made Draco’s heart ache; her handwriting was shaky, showing her distress, and her words were stilted, as if someone had been dictating to her how to demonstrate motherly concern for what he had suffered, without expressing excessive sentimentality.

The real purpose of the missive, of course, was the much smaller slip of parchment folded inside. Bellatrix was brief as ever; she wrote only that she was relieved to hear of his survival, and urged him to now commit his full focus to completing his task. Their time was running short.

It hurt, but Draco forced himself to choose self-preservation over what he truly wanted. Each evening, once classes were done and after he’d gotten some dinner, Draco forced himself to return to the Room of Requirement. He had the repair instructions memorized by now, and after the horror of the bird incident, Draco was determined to succeed before testing it again. 

He wouldn’t even wish death on Greyback himself, not if it was because of Draco’s own actions, or mistakes.

Now that he was giving it his full focus, however, Draco could see that it was slowly working. The Cabinet seemed to be coming back to life, at least as far as inanimate magical objects were concerned. 

He knew that he was racing against the clock, and that he had no choice but to do this; if he stopped, if his aunt or Greyback or Voldemort himself thought that Draco was stalling for any reason at all, there would be terrible consequences. The weight of that tore at Draco, until his frazzled mind felt like it was going to explode. Nothing was working; the process kept grinding to a standstill, and he kept flashing back to that poor little bird…

Walking along the corridors towards the Room, wishing he could do something to work out some of the excess energy that felt as if it was hindering rather than motivating him, Draco looked up--and spotted McLaggen. Cormac was coming out of one of the bathrooms up ahead, looking a bit peeved. 

Despite Hermione’s adamance that she had told Professor McGonagall, and that the matter was behind her already and didn’t need to be addressed, Draco saw red as he looked at the sulking Gryffindor boy.

_ Don’t you dare. _ The voice that drifted into his mind sounded suspiciously like Hermione’s.  _ You promised not to hurt him. _

_ I promised no  _ physical _ harm, _ he realized.  _ Nothing was said about mental. _

Mind made up, he stalked forward. He was running on fumes by now, ready to do anything, say anything, to knock this wanker down at least a dozen pegs, or more preferably, down the Grand Staircase just to get him to leave.

“McLaggen!” 

Cormac turned, eyebrows raising a bit when he saw Draco stalking towards him with purpose. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“A  _ chat _ .” Without even waiting for a chance to give Cormac to respond, he grabbed the boy’s arm and shoved him back into the bathroom which, thankfully, was empty. “You know McLaggen, I’m not going to deny that Slytherins have a tendency to use underhanded means to get their own way, but what you do is despicable.”

“Excuse me?” Cormac looked angry then, and he yanked his arm out of Draco’s vice grip. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how normally blackmail is the way to go for us,” Draco said, eyes boring into Cormac’s. “Or manipulation. Some people are so weak-willed, it’s like a far too easy chess game. Just move a few pieces here and there, and you get what you want. But Slytherins would never resort to drugging someone with a love potion just to get a girlfriend.”

There was a long pause, where the silence was almost deafening. Finally, Cormac’s nostrils flared slightly. “I don’t know--”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Draco cut in, his voice dripping like ice. “That’s repulsive, McLaggen. Granger isn’t a toy for you to play with and then discard when you get bored, and you have no right, no one has the right to try and slip anyone a love potion, least of all to her.”

“And what would you care about Hermione?” Cormac fired back. “She’s a Muggleborn. And your father’s a bloody Death Eater. Everyone knows the fights you used to get into with her, calling her all sorts of things…” Then his voice trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. “But you haven’t done that since fourth year. And now suddenly you’re all upset that I tried giving her a love potion?”

“Circumstances change.” His hand shot out then, grabbing Cormac around the throat and he slammed the boy into the wall, leaning in until they were nose to nose, and finally he saw fear flickering in Cormac’s body language, in his eyes, and it sent a thrill through him to know he was still intimidating enough to do this. “Now you listen carefully, you twat. I don’t want you anywhere near her, I don’t want you speaking to her, I don’t even want you  _ looking  _ at her. She deserves better than you, I can tell you that much, and I’ve got eyes and ears all around this castle. If you even  _ breathe  _ in her general direction, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable life, do you understand me?”

“Fine!” Cormac wheezed. “Fine, I-I’m sorry!”

“And you  _ will  _ apologize to her. You’re really disgusting you know that? You’re not even worth the mud on anyone’s shoes.” Draco gave Cormac another shove, hard enough for the boy to smack his head against the wall, before he stepped back abruptly, nearly causing Cormac to fall. “And keep this conversation to yourself.” With that, he turned on his heel and exited the bathroom, heading towards the Room of Requirement with new burning motivation.

He had to do this. 

Finally, after a week or so of spending his evenings laboring over it, Draco placed an apple on the Cabinet floor with a note to Greyback.

When he uttered the spell again and re-opened the Cabinet door, the apple lay on the floor in two halves, neatly sliced down the center and with its seeds removed, as he had requested. Draco sucked in a breath, and tried once more, adding a different note. When the door opened again, a large, wolfish bite had been taken from each half of the apple.

It had worked.

He had fixed the Vanishing Cabinet. The path between the Cabinets was functional once again.

With a shaking hand, Draco wrote one last message.  _ Collect the Hand of Glory from Borgin and send it through. Then remain there and await the Dark Lord’s orders _ .

Draco leaned his forehead against the cool, sleek wood of the Cabinet after sending the parchment through, his breathing unsteady. He hadn’t explicitly stated that he had succeeded, and Draco desperately hoped that Greyback would be afraid enough of Voldemort’s wrath that he wouldn’t try something impulsive. If the werewolf tested the Cabinet, or told anyone that he thought it was ready--if they tried to test it before Draco could give Dumbledore forewarning that things were moving ahead for the Death Eaters-

There was a soft  _ whoosh _ of sound again. Draco opened the Cabinet with trembling fingers, finding the hideous mummified shape of the Hand of Glory lying on the floor. Grimacing, Draco grabbed a dusty old scarf that was draped over a nearby broken chair in order to carefully wrap the Hand until it appeared shapeless. 

Stuffing it into his bookbag, Draco took a step back, staring up at the Cabinet as if it could become sentient, itself, and harm him. Swallowing hard, Draco tightened his grip on his bag strap and turned his back. Tomorrow, he would have to write to Bellatrix and tell her that the bloody thing was repaired.

* * *

The following afternoon, he asked Hermione via a note in Potions if they could resume their library sessions. She was visibly relieved that he wasn’t just darting off again on the task that he couldn’t tell her, and it made Draco feel infinitely better, himself. He needed her--even if she was invisible at his side. He would know that she was there, within reach.

They were nearly to the library, Hermione already under the Cloak simply so that they could walk together as they went to join Theo and Pansy, when Blaise called out to Draco. “Hey, mate--sorry, I see you’re heading to do homework, but Professor Dumbledore caught me outside of Potions and asked me to track you down and give you this,” he said, offering a rolled up parchment. “I’ve got Quidditch, I’ll see you later...”

Frowning, Draco broke the seal and opened the note, then sagged slightly. Anticipation clashed with regret as he glanced around; Hermione touched his elbow lightly to let him know where she was standing. “He asked me to come immediately,” Draco whispered, chewing his bottom lip. “I wonder...maybe he found another one...”

Hermione’s voice was gentle. “Go, you have to go. I’ll be in the library with the others, at our usual spot. Just come tell us what’s going on as soon as you can.”

Draco did not want to walk away from her, unseen or not; but he knew that she was right. Sighing, he changed his direction and headed up the winding staircases, until he reached the corridor that ended with the gargoyle-guarded circular stairway. Giving the password, Draco climbed the steps swiftly, knocking on the door and entering when Dumbledore called a welcome before he’d even tapped twice.

“I believe I have found the next Horcrux,” the Headmaster told him without preamble. “I promised that you could accompany me, and you may, if you still wish to.”

Shock made Draco swallow, his mouth impossibly dry. “Yes--yes, sir,” he replied at once. “I want to go still.” He set his bookbag aside--it seemed unlikely that quills and ink and textbooks would have much value on this mission--and then hesitated. “Professor?”

“Yes, Draco?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. Fear was one hindrance, of course...but the Unbreakable Vow was an insurmountable barrier. Draco drew a long, deep breath, forcing his racing heart to calm as he searched for a way of communicating what was happening. “I...you know, I told you, that this--”

He lifted his left arm, and Dumbledore nodded, understanding what he referred to without needing to see the Mark again. “--this came with...a task. Ah, um...things are progressing, in regards to that. I don’t know how else to...”

“It’s quite alright.” Professor Dumbledore gave him a kind smile. “Severus is aware that I am leaving this evening, and that I am taking you with me if you wish it. He will keep a firm eye on the school.” He drew his wand, flicking it, and a streak of blue-silver zipped from the room as his Patronus left, too swiftly for Draco to get a good look at its form. “I am informing him specifically of your concern. Now, then; you  _ do _ wish to accompany me still?”

Draco nodded, straightening his shoulders. He had done his best as far as that warning, and he certainly did trust the Headmaster and his godfather. Now his only job was to focus, and make himself as useful as he could to Dumbledore as they embarked on this journey.

“Very well, then: listen carefully.” Dumbledore drew himself up to his full height. “I take you with me on one condition: that you obey any command I might give you at once, and without question.” 

“Of course.” Draco supposed it was Dumbledore nature as a teacher to spell it out that clearly; obviously he would obey his superior without reservation.

“Be sure to understand me, Draco. I mean that you must follow even such orders as ‘run’, ‘hide’ or ‘go back’. Do I have your word?” 

His stomach twisted at the seriousness of both Dumbledore’s tone, and the words. Perhaps it wasn’t as simple as he wanted to think that it was. “I--yes, of course, sir.”

“If I tell you to hide, you will do so?” 

“Yes.” 

“If I tell you to flee, you will obey?” 

“Yes...” 

“If I tell you to leave me, and save yourself, you will do as I tell you?” 

Draco paused, staring at the older wizard intently. “I—” 

“Draco?” 

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Draco let out a breath. “Yes, sir.” The words felt heavy on his tongue, but he had no choice. Dumbledore was willing to take him on this task, and Draco needed to see it through. To do so, he needed to trust the Professor unreservedly.

“Very good. Then if you would, please go and collect the Invisibility Cloak from Miss Granger--our mission this evening is rather more pressing than remaining unnoticed in the library, I’m afraid. Please get that, and then meet me outside the front entrance of the castle.”

Nodding, Draco turned to leave at once after reaching into his bookbag to grab one necessary item.

Hurrying to the library, Draco went to the corner table, his mind racing already leagues ahead of him. “I need the Cloak,” he whispered, and there was a faint rustle as Hermione moved, no doubt as surprised as Pansy and Theo were at his words. “It’s what we thought--and I’m going with him. He asked me to bring it.”

The chair shifted back, and Draco felt Hermione’s hand close around his, tugging him after her. They moved behind the nearby bookcase so that they were completely out of sight from the rest of the library, and she tugged the Cloak off, handing it to him at once. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear. “Oh, Merlin, Draco...please...please stay safe."

“I will,” he promised her at once, though of course he hardly knew if he could guarantee that. “Look, here--take this--” Pulling the half-empty vial of Felix Felicis from his pocket, Draco pressed it into her hand. “Just in case anything happens before we come back tonight. I need to know that you and Ron and the others are safe.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “Shouldn’t you--”

“I need to know  _ you _ are safe,” Draco reiterated, and she clearly saw the desperation behind his eyes, because Hermione did not protest further. Draco’s heart was thundering. He leaned forward and she moved to meet him, one hand rising to stroke through his hair as he kissed her once, hard, pouring the emotions that surged through him into that one gesture. 

_ Be safe _ .  _ For me. _

“I’ll notify the rest of the DA--we’ll be on guard,” she whispered when he finally drew back. “Go.”

Donning the Cloak, Draco moved swiftly back down through the castle and out the front doors. Dumbledore was standing a short distance across the lawn, wearing his dark traveling cloak and looking thoughtfully off into the darkening grounds. Draco reached his side carefully, not wanting to let any part of himself slip into view from beneath the Invisibility Cloak in case anyone was observing from the windows. “I’m here, sir.”

“Very good.” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Then we shall be off.”

They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, lake water and wood smoke from Hagrid’s cabin; it was difficult to believe that they were heading for anything remotely dangerous or Dark. “Professor,” Draco asked quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, “Will we be Apparating?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore affirmed. “You can Apparate now, I believe?” 

“I did learn,” Draco confirmed, “but I haven’t taken the test yet, so I don’t have my license.”

“No matter,” Dumbledore assured him. “I can assist you.” They turned out of the gates into the dimly lit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness was descending rapidly as they walked, and by the time they reached the High Street, night was falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting. 

“— and stay out!” Madam Rosmerta abruptly shouted, forcibly ejecting a grubby-looking wizard from the pub doorway. “Oh, hello, Albus...you’re out late, aren’t you?” 

“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening...forgive me, I’m off to the Hog’s Head...no offence, but I feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight...”

Shortly afterward, they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog’s Head’s sign creaked overhead, though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely empty. Draco eyed its grimy window, remembering sneaking here with Ron and Hermione to meet prospective DA members for the first time, back before Theo and Pansy had even been let in on it all.

“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” Dumbledore murmured, glancing around. “As long as nobody sees us go...now place your hand upon my arm, Draco. There is no need to grip too hard, I am merely guiding you. On the count of three—one...two...three...”

They turned in sync. At once, Draco felt that familiar horrible sensation as if he was being squeezed through a thick rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being compressed almost past endurance. 

And then, just when he felt as if he was guaranteed to suffocate, the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and they were standing in cool darkness, breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air. Draco could hear rushing waves; a light, chilly breeze blew his hair against his cheeks as he looked out at moon-lit sea and star-strewn sky. They were standing upon a high outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. 

He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Draco and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the past. It was a bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by any tree or sweep of grass or sand. 

“What do you think?” Dumbledore asked lightly; he might have been asking Draco’s opinion on whether it was a good site for a picnic. 

“They brought the kids from the orphanage here?” Draco asked, who could not imagine a less cozy spot for a day trip. He would have despised this cold, blustery place as a child--though, to be fair, he had been a well-loved and pampered only child, not an orphan raised as one among dozens in dreary misery.

“Not here, precisely,” Dumbledore replied. “There is a village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs behind us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited this spot. No Muggle could reach this rock unless they were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats cannot approach the cliffs, the waters around them are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed down; magic would have served better than ropes. And he brought two small children with him, probably for the pleasure of terrorizing them. I think the journey alone would have done it, don’t you?”

Draco looked up at the cliff again, and felt goosebumps. Riddle truly had been a monster, even as a tiny child. He could not fathom the terror that Riddle’s Muggle companions must have felt, having that unnerving boy dragging them along to this desolate place.

“But his final destination—and ours—lies a little farther on. Come.” Dumbledore beckoned Draco to the very edge of the rock where a series of jagged niches made footholds leading down to boulders that lay half-submerged in water and closer to the cliff. It was a treacherous descent and Dumbledore moved slowly, hampered slightly by his withered hand. The lower rocks were slippery with seawater. Draco could feel flecks of cold salt spray hitting his face. 

“Lumos,” Dumbledore murmured, as he reached the boulder closest to the cliff face. A thousand flecks of golden light sparkled upon the surf-sprayed stone surface. “There it is...” Dumbledore said quietly, holding his wand a little higher. Draco saw a fissure in the cliff, almost invisible in the darkness of the night and the sea. Gesturing for him to follow, Dumbledore began making his way inside, and the teenager followed him at once.

The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Draco could tell would be filled with water at high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered like wet tar in the passing light of Dumbledore’s wand. A little way in, the passageway curved to the left, and Draco saw that the tunnels extended quite far into the cliff. The ground rose gradually ahead, and eventually they reached a point where steps appeared, which led into a slightly larger cave. 

Draco climbed up them slowly and carefully behind the Headmaster, seaspray clinging to his skin and clothes and making him shiver uncontrollably in the still, freezing air. Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, examining the walls and ceiling. 

“Yes, this is the place,” Dumbledore confirmed quietly. “It has known magic.” Draco could not tell whether the shivers he was experiencing were still only due to his spine-deep coldness, or to the same awareness of enchantments that prickled up and down his spine.

Dumbledore approached the far wall of the cave and caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring words in a language that Draco did not know. Twice Dumbledore walked all around the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backward and forward over a particular spot, until finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall. “We go on through here,” he said softly. “The entrance is concealed.” He stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the rock. 

For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a powerful light behind the crack. “Is it sealed?” Draco began to ask through chattering teeth, but before the words had finished leaving his lips, the outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid as before. 

Dumbledore looked around at him with an apologetic expression. “I’m so sorry, Draco, I forgot,” he said; he now pointed his wand at Draco and at once, his clothes were as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front of a blazing fire. 

“Thank you,” Draco said gratefully, adjusting himself and drawing his wand now that his fingers were more steady. Dumbledore turned his attention back to the solid cave wall. He did not use any more magic, but simply stood there staring at it intently, as though something extremely interesting was written on it. 

Draco stayed quite still; he did not want to break Dumbledore’s concentration. Then, after two solid minutes, Dumbledore said quietly, “Oh, surely not. So crude.” At Draco’s questioning sound, the Headmaster sighed. “I rather think,” he mused, putting his uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a short silver knife similar to what Draco used to chop potion ingredients, “that we are required to make payment to pass.” 

“Payment?” Draco repeated. “You’ve got to...give the door something?” 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “Blood, if I am not much mistaken.” 

“Blood?” Draco wrinkled his nose, repulsed. “Why’s it always got to be something like blood...”

“I did say that it was crude,” Dumbledore affirmed, sounding disdainful, even disappointed, as though Voldemort had fallen short of higher standards Dumbledore expected. “The idea, as I am sure you will have gathered, is that your enemy must weaken him- or herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort fails to grasp that there are much more terrible things than physical injury.” 

“Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it...” Draco said lightly, thinking about how the  _ Sectumsempra  _ curse had felt; even if you had a strong tolerance, it was normal not to be keen for more pain. 

“Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable,” Dumbledore sighed, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and exposing the forearm of his injured hand. There was a flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face was peppered with dark, glistening drops. “Ah, that seems to have done the trick, doesn’t it?” 

The blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in the wall once more, and this time it did not fade away; the blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished, leaving an opening into total darkness. “After me, I think,” Dumbledore said, and he walked through the archway with Draco on his heels, lighting his own wand as he went. 

A terribly eerie sight met their eyes. They were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Draco could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the completely still water below. The greenish glow and the light from the two wands were the only things that broke the otherwise unnatural blackness, though their rays did not penetrate as far as Draco would have expected. 

The darkness was somehow denser than normal darkness. “Let us walk,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Be very careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me.” 

He set off around the edge of the lake, and Draco followed close behind him. Their footsteps made echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock that surrounded the water. Draco found the look and the silence of the space oppressive despite its size, making him feel buried alive. “Professor?” he said softly. “Do you think the Horcrux is here?” 

“Oh yes,” Dumbledore confirmed. “I’m quite certain that it is. The question is, how do we get to it?” 

“Not much chance that a simple Summoning Charm would do the trick, would it?” Draco asked, unsure if he really thought that it might be that simple, or if he was just trying to lighten the mood.

“It is unlikely,” Dumbledore replied with a smile, glancing back at Draco with something like amused admiration for his sense of humor. “But why don’t you try it, just in case?” 

“Me? Ah...sure.” Draco had not expected that, but cleared his throat and said loudly, wand aloft, “Accio Horcrux!” 

With a noise like an explosion, something very large and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty feet away; before Draco could see what it was, it had vanished again with a crashing splash that made great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Draco stared at the spot where it had vanished, his heart thundering as he turned to Dumbledore. “What the bloody hell was that?” 

“Something, I think, that is ready to respond should we attempt to seize the Horcrux.” Draco looked back at the water. The surface of the lake was once more shining black glass. The ripples had vanished unnaturally fast. His heart was still pounding. “Did you think that would happen, sir?” 

“I thought something would happen if we made an obvious attempt to get our hands on the Horcrux. That was a very good idea, Draco; much the simplest way of finding out what we are facing.”

They walked on a short distance longer before Dumbledore stopped abruptly. Draco walked into him this time; for a moment he toppled on the edge of the dark water, and Dumbledore’s uninjured hand closed tightly around his upper arm, pulling him back. “So sorry, Draco, I should have given warning. Stand back against the wall, please; I think I have found the place.” 

Draco wasn’t sure what Dumbledore meant; this patch of dark bank seemed exactly like every other bit as far as he could see, but Dumbledore seemed to have detected something special about it. He raised his wand, gazing down into the bottomless lake, then waved his hand slowly; immediately, a thick coppery green chain appeared out of thin air, extending from the depths of the water and sliding into Dumbledore’s other hand. 

Dumbledore tapped the chain, which began to slide through his fist like a snake, coiling itself on the ground with a clinking sound that echoed noisily off the rocky walls, pulling something from the depths of the black water. Draco inhaled sharply as the ghostly prow of a tiny boat broke the surface, glowing as green as the chain, and floated, with barely a ripple, toward the place on the bank where they both stood. 

“Is...is it safe?” Draco eyed it warily; it appeared solid and intact enough, but it  _ was _ a magical boat that had just slid up out of a very questionable lake. And it was a trap of Lord Voldemort’s own making.

“Oh yes, I think so. Voldemort needed to create a means to cross the lake without attracting the wrath of those creatures he had placed within it in case he ever wanted to visit or remove his Horcrux. I think he would have been prepared to risk what was, to his mind, the most unlikely possibility that somebody else would find it, knowing that he had set other obstacles ahead that only he would be able to penetrate. We shall see whether he was right.” 

Dumbledore stood aside and Draco climbed carefully into the boat. Dumbledore stepped in too, coiling the chain onto the floor as the boat began to move at once. There was no sound other than the silken rustle of the boat’s brow cleaving through the water; it moved without their help, as though an invisible rope was pulling it onward toward the light in the center. 

Soon they could no longer see the walls of the cavern; they might have been at sea except that there were no waves. Draco looked down and saw the reflected gold of his wandlight sparkling and glittering on the black water as they passed. The boat was carving deep ripples upon the glassy surface, grooves in the dark mirror. A marble-white shape floating inches below the surface caught Draco’s eyes, and he made a strangled sound of horror. “Professor,” he managed, and even his quiet voice echoed loudly over the silent water. “I saw a hand in the water—a human hand.” 

“Yes, I am sure you did,” Dumbledore said calmly. Draco continued staring down into the water, looking for the vanished hand, and a sick feeling rose in his throat as he thought of the utterly useless Ministry pamphlets about Dark creatures that had answered Lord Voldemort’s summons in the past. “So that thing that jumped out of the water—?” 

But Draco had his answer before Dumbledore could reply; the wandlight had slid over a fresh patch of water and showed him, this time, a dead man lying faceup inches beneath the surface, his open eyes misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and his robes swirling around him like smoke. “There are whole bodies in here.” Draco whispered, and his voice sounded much higher than usual. 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said calmly, “but we do not need to worry about them at the moment.”

“At the moment?” Draco repeated, tearing his gaze from the water to look back at Dumbledore. 

“Not while they are merely drifting peacefully below us,” Dumbledore clarified. “There is nothing to be feared from a body, Draco, any more than there is anything to be feared from the darkness. Lord Voldemort, who of course secretly fears both, disagrees. But once again he reveals his own lack of wisdom. It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.” 

Draco said nothing; he did not strictly disagree, but he did find the idea that there were bodies floating around them and beneath them rather horrible. “One of them jumped,” he pointed out. “When I tried to Summon the Horcrux, a body leapt out of the lake.” 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said again. “I am sure that once we take the Horcrux, we shall find them less peaceable. However, like many creatures that dwell in cold and darkness, they fear light and warmth, which we shall therefore call to our aid should the need arise. Fire, to be specific,” Dumbledore added with a smile, in response to the teenager’s bewildered expression. 

“Okay,” Draco said mechanically, unsure what else to say in the face of the Headmaster’s calm certainty. He turned his head to look at the greenish glow toward which the boat was still inexorably sailing. 

“Nearly there,” Dumbledore remarked cheerfully. Sure enough, the greenish light seemed to be growing larger at last, and within minutes, the boat had come to a halt, bumping gently into something that Draco could not see at first, but when he raised his illuminated wand he saw that they had reached a small island of smooth rock in the center of the lake. “Careful not to touch the water,” Dumbledore reiterated as Draco climbed out of the boat. 

The island was no larger than Dumbledore’s office, an expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but the source of that greenish light, which looked much brighter when viewed close to. Draco squinted at it; at first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then he saw that the light was coming from a stone basin rather like a Pensieve, which was set on top of a pedestal. Dumbledore approached the basin and Draco followed. 

Side by side, they looked down into it. The basin was full of an emerald liquid emitting the phosphorescent glow. “What is it?” Draco asked quietly. 

“I am not sure,” Dumbledore admitted. “Something more worrisome than blood and bodies, however, I have no doubt.” Dumbledore pushed back the sleeve of his robe over his blackened hand, and stretched out the tips of his burned fingers toward the surface of the potion. “It cannot be touched by hand,” Dumbledore went on. “You see? Give it a try.” 

Surprised, Draco put his hand into the basin and attempted to touch the potion; he met an invisible barrier that prevented him coming within an inch of it. No matter how hard he pushed, his fingers encountered nothing but what seemed to be solid and flexible air. 

Dumbledore raised his wand, making complicated movements over the surface of the potion, murmuring soundlessly. Nothing happened, except perhaps that the potion glowed a little brighter. 

Draco remained silent while Dumbledore worked, but after a while Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and Draco thought it was safe to talk again without distracting him. “The Horcrux is in there, sir?” 

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore peered more closely into the basin. Draco saw his face reflected, upside down, in the smooth surface of the green potion. “But how to reach it? This potion cannot be penetrated by hand, Vanished, parted, scooped up, or siphoned away, nor can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made to change its nature.” 

Almost absentmindedly, Dumbledore raised his wand again, twirled it once in midair, and then caught the crystal goblet that he had conjured out of nowhere. “I can only conclude that this potion is supposed to be drunk.” 

“What?” Draco said, aghast. “Sir, surely not--” 

“Yes, I think so: Only by drinking it can I empty the basin and see what lies in its depths.” 

“But what if—what if it kills you?” Draco asked, and though he knew it was not the case, he couldn’t help feeling as if he heard his voice sounding high and thin, like a frightened child’s rather than a young man. The idea of being left alone in this dark and terrible place was far worse than any other fear he had experienced in coming here.

“Oh, I doubt that it would work like that,” Dumbledore assured him easily. “Lord Voldemort would not want to kill the person who reached this island.” 

Draco raised his eyebrows, thinking of two summers before, and the line up of defected Death Eaters whose execution he had witnessed. “I mean...sir, this  _ is _ Voldemort we’re—” 

“I’m sorry, Draco, that was unclear; I should have said, he would not want to  _ immediately _ kill the person who reached this island,” Dumbledore corrected himself. “He would want to keep them alive long enough to find out how they managed to penetrate so far through his defenses and, most importantly of all, why they were so intent upon emptying the basin. Do not forget that Lord Voldemort believes that he alone knows about his Horcruxes.” 

Draco could see his point, there. He fell silent, watching the Headmaster frowning slightly at the emerald liquid, evidently thinking hard. “Undoubtedly,” Dumbledore said, at length, “this potion must act in a way that will prevent me from taking the Horcrux. It might paralyze me, cause me to forget what I am here for, create so much pain I am distracted, or render me incapable in some other way. This being the case, Draco, it will be your job to make sure I keep drinking, even if you have to tip the potion into my protesting mouth. You understand?” 

Their eyes met over the basin, each pale face lit with that strange, green light. Draco did not speak. Was this why he had been brought along—so that he could force-feed Dumbledore a potion that might cause him unendurable pain?

“You remember,” Dumbledore said a little more firmly, “The condition on which I brought you with me?” 

Draco hesitated still, looking into the blue eyes that had turned green in the reflected light of the basin. “But what if—?” 

“You swore, did you not, to follow any command I gave you?” 

“Yes, sir, but—” 

“I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?” 

“Yes,” Draco said with a clenched jaw, “but—” 

“Well, then,” Dumbledore cut him off, shaking back his sleeves once more and raising the empty goblet, “you have my orders.” 

“Why can’t I drink the potion instead?” Draco asked, one last desperate attempt. 

“Because I am much older, much cleverer, and much less valuable,” Dumbledore said promptly. “Once and for all, Draco, do I have your word that you will do all in your power to make me keep drinking?” 

“I—fine, all right, but—” 

Before Draco could make any further protest, Dumbledore lowered the crystal goblet into the potion. For a split second, Draco almost hoped that he would not be able to touch the potion with the goblet; but the crystal sank into the surface as nothing else had. When the glass was full to the brim, Dumbledore lifted it to his mouth. “Your good health, Draco.”

And he drained the goblet. Draco watched, terrified, his hands gripping the rim of the basin so hard that his fingertips went numb. “Professor?” he asked anxiously, as Dumbledore lowered the empty glass. “How do you feel?” 

Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes closed. Draco wondered whether he was in pain, or simply waiting for the effects of the potion to strike him. Dumbledore plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled it, and drank once more. In silence, Dumbledore drank three gobletsful of the potion. Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, he staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy. 

“Professor Dumbledore?” Draco asked, his voice strained. “Can you hear me?” 

Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was about to spill from it; Draco reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady for him. “Professor, can you hear me?” he asked again more loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern.

The older man panted and then spoke in a voice that Draco did not recognize, for he had never before heard Dumbledore frightened like this. “I don’t want...Don’t make me...” 

Draco stared into the aged face that he had come to know so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and he did not know what to do. “...don’t like...want to stop...” moaned Dumbledore.

“You...you can’t stop, Professor,” Draco said gently. “You’ve got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had to keep drinking. Here...” Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Draco forced the goblet back toward Dumbledore’s mouth and tipped it for him, so that Dumbledore drank the remainder of the potion inside. 

“No...” he groaned, as Draco lowered the goblet back into the basin and refilled it for him. “I don’t want to...I don’t want to...Let me go...” 

“It’s all right, Professor,” Draco whispered, his hand shaking. “It’s all right, I’m here with you—” 

“Make it stop, make it stop,” Dumbledore moaned, seemingly not hearing him at all. 

“Yes...yes, this’ll make it stop,” Draco lied, loathing himself for it. He tipped the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore’s open mouth. 

Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around the vast chamber, across the dead black water. “No, no, no, no, I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to...” 

“It’s all right, Professor, it’s all right!” Draco continued to repeat loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly scoop up the next gobletful of potion. “Nothing’s happening to you, you’re safe, it isn’t real, I swear it isn’t real—take this, now, drink this...” 

And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though it was an antidote that Draco offered him, but upon draining the goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably. “It’s all my fault, all my fault,” he sobbed. “Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I’ll never, never again...” 

“This will make it stop, Professor,” Draco choked out, his voice cracking as he tipped more of the potion into Dumbledore’s mouth. 

Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Draco’s trembling hands as he moaned, “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them, please, please, it’s my fault, hurt me instead...” 

“Here, drink this, drink this, you’ll be alright,” Draco panted desperately, and once again Dumbledore obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight shut and shook from head to foot. And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Draco filled the goblet once more. “Please, please, please, no...not that, not that, I’ll do anything...” 

“Just drink, Professor Dumbledore, just keep drinking...”

The Headmaster drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire. “No more, please, no more...” 

Draco filled the goblet again, and at last he felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin. “We’re nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it all...”

He supported Dumbledore’s shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass; then Draco was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in more anguish than ever, “I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!” No sooner had he finished the final goblet than he yelled, “ _ Kill me _ !” 

And here Draco hesitated, his chest feeling so tight with terror that he could scarcely breathe. It was one thing, he realized, to promise to obey every order. It was entirely enough to know he was tormenting this man, who was clearly hallucinating something truly horrific, and he couldn’t bear to continue, but knew that he had no choice.

“I’m sorry,” he said shakily, kneeling beside the headmaster. “I’m so sorry, please… You have to keep drinking, Professor, you have to, forgive me--”

Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face. “No!” Draco cried out, who had stood to refill the goblet again; he dropped the cup into the basin, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over onto his back; Dumbledore’s glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. 

“No,” Draco whimpered, shaking Dumbledore gently. “No, please, you said it wasn’t poison, wake up, wake up—Rennervate!” he cried, his wand pointed at Dumbledore’s chest. There was a flash of red light, but nothing happened. “Rennervate—sir—please—”

Dumbledore’s eyelids flickered; Draco’s heart leapt in his chest. “Sir, are you—?” 

“Water,” Dumbledore croaked out. 

“Water,” Draco gasped. “Yes, of course—” He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden locket lying curled beneath it. “Aguamenti!” he muttered, jabbing his wand at the goblet. The goblet filled with clear water and Draco dropped to his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and brought the glass to his lips—but it was empty. 

Dumbledore gave a feeble groan.

“But I had some—just wait—Aguamenti!” Draco said again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he approached Dumbledore’s mouth, the water vanished again. “Sir, I’m trying, I’m so sorry, I’m trying!” Draco told him desperately, but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear him; he had rolled onto his side and was drawing great, rattling breaths that sounded agonizing. “Aguamenti—Aguamenti—!” 

The goblet filled and emptied over and over again. And now Dumbledore’s breathing was fading. His brain whirling in panic, Draco suddenly knew, instinctively, the only way left to get water, because Voldemort had planned it so...That bastard, that horrid monster, this had been Voldemort’s final, most deadly defense of them all.

Draco flung himself over to the edge of the rock and plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to the brim of icy water that did not vanish. “Sir—here!” Draco panted, and lunging forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore’s face. 

It was the best that he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. 

The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere that Draco looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of the dead rising from the black water. And each of them, he knew in an instant, in a single moment that made bile rise in his throat, were victims of Voldemort himself. All of the brave people who died during the First War, who vanished without a trace, they had been here all along.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Draco yelped, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm. It released him, falling backward into the water with a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken faces leering. “Petrificus Totalus!” Draco shouted again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him. “Impedimenta! Incarcerous!” 

A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Draco felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, flesh icy, arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began to carry him, screaming and kicking, slowly and surely, back to the water, where he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one more dead guardian of a fragment of Voldemort's shattered soul… 

_ I’m going to die _ , he realized in his panicked state. _ I’m going to die down here and no one will know, no one will find me, I’ll never see Hermione again--  _

But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so that the Inferi holding Draco so tightly stumbled and faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to get to the water. 

They dropped him; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his arms, then scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around. Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch and from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast lasso, encircling them all with warmth. The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape the fire in which they were enclosed. 

Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. Wordlessly, he gestured to Draco to come to his side. Distracted by the flames, the Inferi seemed unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Draco back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with them, around them, the bewildered Inferi accompanying them to the water’s edge, where they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters. 

Draco, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the ring of protective flame around them. Draco seized him under his arms and helped him back to his seat. 

Once they were both safely jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi swarming below them did not dare resurface. “Sir,” Draco panted in apology, “Sir, I forgot—what you’d said about fire—they were all coming at us and I panicked—” 

“Quite understandable,” Dumbledore murmured; Draco was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was. They reached the bank with a little bump and Draco leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore. 

The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he let his wand hand fall; the ring of fire vanished, but the Inferi did not re-emerge from the water. The little boat sank into the water once more; clanking and tinkling, its chain slithered back into the lake too.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Draco said at once, anxious about Dumbledore’s extreme pallor and by the air of exhaustion radiating from him. “Don’t worry, I’ll get us back out of here...just lean on me, sir...” 

And pulling Dumbledore’s uninjured arm around his shoulders, Draco guided his Headmaster back around the lake, bearing most of his weight. “The protection was...well-designed,” Dumbledore murmured faintly. “One alone could not have done it...you did well, very well, Draco...” 

“Don’t talk now, sir,” Draco urged him, fearing how slurred Dumbledore’s voice was becoming, how much his feet were beginning to drag. “Save your energy, sir...we’ll soon be out of here...” 

They reached the blood-thirsty archway. Draco lifted his forearm, which had been grazed when the Inferi dragged him down, and he pressed it against the stone where Dumbledore indicated; the archway reopened instantly. Crossing through the outer cave, Draco helped Dumbledore back across the seawater-slick rocks beyond the cliff, until they were back on the tall outcropping of rock upon which they had first arrived.

“It’s going to be alright, sir,” Draco repeated, more worried by Dumbledore’s silence than he had been by his weakened voice. “We’re nearly there...I can Apparate us both back.” 

Doing so took some effort, as Draco had never practiced being the one carrying a passenger by Apparation; but with Dumbledore’s murmured instruction he managed it, and they returned to a quiet side street with neither of them being splinched.

After the crashing of the ocean waves and the eerie, unnatural stillness of the caves, the pleasant spring atmosphere of the little village was almost disorienting. Draco looked around, his chest heaving as he tried to settle his nerves. Dumbledore had promptly moved to sit on a small wooden bench against the back wall of the Three Broomsticks; from his pocket he withdrew an item hanging from a chain, and Draco inhaled sharply.

“We got it, sir?”

The Headmaster looked up at him and nodded, his eyes pleased despite the lines of pain and weariness in his face.

Before either of them could say another word, however, there were running footsteps. Draco’s heart leapt: somebody had seen them, perhaps saw that they needed help. Turning, he saw Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street towards them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing-gown embroidered with dragons. 

“I saw you Apparate in as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn’t think of what to—but what’s wrong with Albus?” She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.

“He’s hurt,” Draco replied, and he didn’t pay attention to whether the bar matron was surprised to see which particular student was huddled behind her pub with the Headmaster. “Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?”

“You can’t go up there alone! Don’t you realize—haven’t you seen—?” 

“What has happened?” Dumbledore asked, straightening up at once. “Rosmerta, what’s wrong?” 

“The—the Dark Mark, Albus.” And she pointed into the sky, in the direction of Hogwarts. 

Dread flooded through Draco at the words, but still he forced himself to turn and look up the hill. 

There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark that the Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a building...wherever they had committed a murder.

“When did it appear?” Dumbledore asked next, and his hand clenched painfully upon Draco’s shoulder as he struggled to his feet. The teenager stiffened his posture to offer support, not tearing his eyes from the horrible sight overhead. 

“Must have been minutes ago, it wasn’t there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs—” 

“We need to return to the castle at once,” Dumbledore told Draco. “Rosmerta, we need transport--brooms--” 

“I’ve got a couple behind the bar,” she said, looking frightened by both Dumbledore’s sickly appearance, and his words.

Draco raised his wand at once. “Accio Rosmerta’s brooms.”

A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out into the street and were racing each other to Draco’s side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly, at waist height. 

“Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,” Dumbledore requested as he mounted the broom nearest him. “It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has yet realized anything is wrong...Draco, put on the Invisibility Cloak. And take this; please keep hold of it for me, until we have the time to examine it.”

Draco accepted the locket, pocketing it before he pulled the Cloak out of his pocket and threw it over himself, then mounted his own broom. Madam Rosmerta was already tottering back towards her pub as Draco and Dumbledore kicked off from the ground and rose up into the air simultaneously. 

As they sped towards the castle, Draco glanced sideways at Dumbledore, ready to grab him should he begin to fall; but the sight of the Dark Mark seemed to have acted upon Dumbledore like a stimulant: he was bent low over his broom, his eyes fixed upon the Mark, his long silver hair and beard flying behind him in the night air. 

Turning his eyes back to the skull as well, fear swelled inside of Draco like a venomous bubble, compressing his lungs, driving all other discomfort from his mind.

How long had they been away? Had Hermione and the others’ luck run out by now? Was it one of them who had caused the Mark to be set over the school, or was it Ginny, Neville, or Luna, or some other member of the DA? And if it was...Draco was the one who had warned them, he had made sure that they were on the alert tonight...would he be responsible for the death of a friend? 

As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which they had walked earlier, Draco heard, over the whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore muttering in some strange language again. He thought he understood why as he felt his broom shudder for a moment when they flew over the boundary wall into the grounds: Dumbledore was undoing the enchantments he himself had set around the castle, so that they could enter at their current speed. 

The Dark Mark was glittering directly above the Astronomy Tower, the highest point of the castle. Did that mean the death had occurred there? 

Dumbledore had already crossed the ramparts and was dismounting; Draco landed next to him seconds later and looked around frantically. The tower was deserted. The door to the spiral staircase that led back into the castle was closed. There was no sign of a struggle, of a fight to the death, of a body. 

“What does it mean?” Draco asked Dumbledore, pulling off and pocketing the Invisibility Cloak as he stared up at the green skull with its serpent’s tongue glinting evilly above them. “Is it actually the Mark? Has someone definitely been—Professor?”

In the dim green glow from the Mark, Draco saw Dumbledore clutching at his chest with his blackened hand. The Headmaster appeared to be thinking, hard and fast; then he lifted his head, regarding Draco intently. 

“You swore to obey me, Draco, and now you must do so once more.” He straightened up, pushing himself carefully away from the chest-high wall that circled the Astronomy Tower. “Do not let anyone but those you know you can trust be aware that you have that Cloak.” Draco nodded, staring at the Headmaster with confusion. Dumbledore drew a bracing breath. “We are out of time. Draco, you  _ must _ obey me now.” 

He reached into his robes and drew his wand. “Disarm me.”

Draco balked, actually taking a step back as if a foot’s distance could erase the words that Dumbledore had uttered. “What--sir, I can’t--you need--”

“You gave me your  _ word _ , Draco.” His breath caught at the heat and intensity in the older wizard’s voice as he pinned the teenager immobile with his eyes. “Do it, please. Disarm me. Immediately.”

Fear, disgust, and something deeper and darker--a sense of imminent doom, almost--clogged Draco’s throat, but he mustered all of his strength and managed to force his voice out, not sure he trusted himself to use non-verbal magic as he lifted his hand, watching his entire arm shake visibly in the murky green glow of the Mark. “ _ Ex-Expelliarmus _ !”

Normally, Disarming another wizard would bring their wand flying to the hand of the attacker, and Draco had almost starting lifting his free hand, anticipating it. But either Dumbledore did something of his own, or the teenager was trembling too violently; the thin length of the Headmaster’s wand leapt from his fingers into the air, over the ramparts and out of sight into the dark night.

He wanted to ask why in the hell he had been required to do this, to limit Dumbledore’s ability to defend himself. But even as Draco opened his mouth, he finally registered what he thought the Headmaster must have sensed moments before--footsteps, thundering up the circular staircase to the Tower.

Behind him, the door erupted open with a dramatic bang, and several black-cloaked and masked figured poured out onto the Astronomy platform, staring avidly at where Draco still stood, shaking, with his wand raised and aimed at Dumbledore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this chapter while chasing my cat off my keyboard and my brain reflects that.


	25. Where Men and Angels Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For the first time since Dumbledore had summoned him earlier, Draco was finally calm; he knew exactly what he had to do, and he was embracing his path fully."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings--One (1) major character death, magic battle/dueling, and very minor reference to what we all know Greyback is capable of.

When the door burst open, Draco thought he was going to throw up, already lightheaded enough from being in the cave, and being attacked by the Inferi...It had been barely, what? A half-hour? A full hour? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he and Dumbledore had only just barely escaped that nightmare with their lives--and now Death Eaters were in the castle, several of them coming to the top of the Tower, all of them he recognized.

“Dumbledore cornered!” one of the men said in a wheezy laughing tone, and he pulled his mask off, revealing a slightly lopsided and unattractive face. “Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone! Well done, Draco, very well done!”

“Good evening, Amycus,” Dumbledore said calmly, as if this were just a pleasant tea party get-together, and not an ambush that was guaranteed to end badly for someone. “And you’ve brought Alecto too...Charming…”

Alecto sneered, her eyes blazing under her mask. “Think your little jokes will help you on your deathbed?”

“Jokes?” Dumbledore gave her a slight smile. “No, no, these are manners.”

Despite Dumbledore’s seemingly unfazed sarcasm, Draco’s jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth ached; he could barely breathe. He wanted to demand to know why the Death Eaters were here, when he had only just sent confirmation yesterday that the Vanishing Cabinet had been repaired. Surely Bellatrix would have made sure that they didn’t move yet, surely Voldemort would have…

_ No _ , Draco realized, his mind flashing back suddenly to the conversation that he had overheard at Severus’ house, when Narcissa had gone to his godfather in desperation for Draco’s safety. Of course Voldemort wouldn’t have given Draco any warning. This wasn’t just about Dumbledore. This was about Lucius’ punishment for his failure at the Ministry.

This was about Draco.

“Do it.” Greyback’s raspy, barking tone made Draco jump slightly, his shoulders hunching defensively. He couldn’t even bear to look at the werewolf; but it seemed like Greyback was enjoying this too much to notice Draco’s stiffness. His heavy hand came down hard on the back of Draco’s neck, thick, hairy fingers giving a small squeeze as he leaned in close to the teenager. “You got him cornered, pretty, just finish him off.”

“Is that you, Fenrir?” Dumbledore asked, still sounding perfectly civil.

“That’s right,” Greyback said, giving a low, cruel chuckle. “Pleased to see me?”

“No, I cannot say that I am.”

Against his better judgment, Draco forced himself to glance to the side, seeing Greyback grinning wide enough to flash all of his fangs. But it was the blood around his mouth that made the teen’s eyes widen in revulsion, as well as the way that the werewolf licked at his lips like he was savoring a sweet elf-made wine. 

“But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore,” Greyback purred. His hand moved from Draco’s neck to cup his chin then, sharp fingernails digging into his jawline for a few seconds. “And other pretty little things.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” Draco snarled, but Greyback just laughed, though he did pull his hand away.

“Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now?” Dumbledore did look a little repulsed then, but his words pulled Greyback’s attention away from Draco, who was now visibly trembling from head to foot. “This is most unusual. You have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?”

“That’s right. Shocks you that, does it, Dumbledore? Does it frighten you?”

“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little.”

“It don’t matter.” Greyback picked at his teeth then, snickering. “I wouldn’t want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, not when there are throats to be ripped out. Delicious.”

“Enough of this,” the fourth Death Eater said harshly, and Draco recognized him too. A man named Yaxley, who often worked with Lucius at the Ministry. “We’ve got our orders. Draco’s got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly, finish him off.”

It was only then that Draco realized, his terror mounting, that Dumbledore had begun sliding to the floor, leaning against the wall for support. The horrific experience in the cave, as well as the lingering effects of the potion, were finally catching up to him. For once, Dumbledore did not look tall and proud and powerful; he was weaker, paler, as if he were already on the very edge of death, no other outside forces necessary.

“I-I…” Draco stammered, suddenly feeling very much his age, young and terrified and wishing that he could be anywhere but here.

Thankfully, his hesitation wasn’t noticed by the Death Eaters; Amycus Carrow couldn’t seem to help himself from continuing his taunts. “He’s not long for this world anyway, if you ask me,” he sneered, and Alecto started giggling madly, sounding for all the world as if she were hyperventilating. “Look at him, what’s happened to you, Dumby?"

“Oh,” Dumbledore said softly, “weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Old age, in short…One day, perhaps, it will happen to you...if you are so lucky, Amycus…”

Apparently, Amycus did not appreciate being mocked, for his face twisted with rage. “What’s that mean, then, what’s that mean?” he shouted violently. “Always the same, weren’t yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing, nothing! I don’t even know why the Dark Lord’s bothering to kill yer!” He turned his gaze back to Draco then, who felt his chest freeze. “Come on, Draco, do it!”

Before anything else could be said, however, there were renewed sounds of scuffling from below, and an explosion, before a voice shouted. “They’ve blocked the stairs! Reducto!  _ Reducto _ !”

Just hearing that nearly sent a wave of relief through Draco’s body. So the Dark Mark had been raised prematurely; perhaps no one had died yet, maybe no one had even been seriously harmed…though the blood on Greyback’s mouth made his stomach knot; he knew that the werewolf must have gotten to someone before he and Dumbledore had returned. Someone he knew and probably cared for--and without his conscious permission, Hermione’s face leapt to his mind--

_ No _ , he thought fiercely.  _ Not her. Never her. _

“Draco, we are running out of time!” Yaxley said harshly. “Do it now, you have your orders!”

There was no way out of this. Standing there, shaking so hard it was a wonder he could even keep his wand up, Draco found himself staring into Dumbledore’s eyes, the kindness within them present still, and wondered just what he could do to get out of this horrible mess.

He could not murder his Headmaster. This was not supposed to happen, it was never supposed to have gotten this far, this bad...

The door behind him suddenly burst open one more time, and everyone’s heads turned as Severus strode onto the Tower platform, his cloak billowing about him. His face was a mask, his black eyes devoid of emotion--and despite the very small surge of comfort that he felt at seeing his godfather, Draco already knew that something was very wrong.

“Severus…"

Dumbledore’s voice was like nothing Draco had heard before from the older wizard. Soft, almost tentative...pleading. Draco’s eyes whipped back to the Headmaster, staring at him as Dumbledore and Severus locked gazes. They were communicating without saying a single word, that much was clear to Draco, while the other Death Eaters just glared back and forth between the two wizards, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Severus,” Dumbledore repeated, his voice so quiet he could barely be heard. “Please.”

Severus moved forward, all but pushing Amycus and Yaxley to the side, while Alecto and Greyback watched with vicious anticipation. And then, to Draco’s horror, Severus raised his wand, pointing it right at Dumbledore’s chest, and the cursed words fell from his lips.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A jet of green light shot from the end of Severus’ wand, and hit Professor Dumbledore squarely in the chest, right over his heart. Draco’s mouth dropped open, but whether he was screaming or not, he couldn’t be sure. He could only watch, frozen, as Dumbledore was blasted into the air, and for a split second, seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull that illuminated the Tower with its ugly green light; and then he fell slowly backward, like an enormous rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight.

“No,” Draco breathed out, feeling as though his heart was climbing into his throat, trying to leave his body.

“Out of here, quickly,” Severus said shortly. Before Draco even had time to react, his godfather’s hand landed on the scruff of his neck, and he was yanked backward. They stumbled off of the Tower and quickly down the stairs, with Greyback, Alecto, Amycus and Yaxley close behind them.

The battle being waged on the stairs was like whiplash to Draco’s feverish mind, a migraine threatening to build behind his eye sockets. Going from the oppressive silence and darkness of that cave, to now being dragged down the stairs and surrounded by screaming voices and jets of light as spells and curses were being flung about--it nearly sent Draco reeling into the walls, disoriented and sickened.

But Severus kept a tight grip on his neck, continuing to force him forward, and the two of them were somehow able to charge through the battle unscathed, though a few jinxes only missed them by inches.

“Crucio!” Amycus cried, and Draco flinched as a jet of light nearly hit someone--and he realized with a jolt that it was Ginny, her red hair flying about like flames, her freckled face tight with concentration as she dodged the curses being thrown at her and tried to counter them. “Crucio! Crucio! You can’t dance forever, pretty--”

On reflex, Draco flung a curse back at the man as they fled, and Amycus screeched as he was flung into a wall, nearly knocking him out. Before he could regain his senses, Severus hissed, yanking on Draco’s collar to pull them both around a corner, and into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind them.

“What have you done?!” Draco wheezed, yanking away from Severus and raising his wand; but the older man grabbed his wrist, keeping him from attacking. “You  _ killed _ him, you--”

“I did what I had to do,” Severus said shortly, though Draco finally saw a flare of pain in those deep onyx eyes. “Draco, listen to me. I am still loyal to Dumbledore. I cannot explain it all to you, we simply don’t have the time right now, but you have to have faith in this--in me, and in him. You need to trust me.”

“Loyal to a dead man!” Draco cried, his vision going blurry as his eyes filled with tears. “Do you have any idea what kind of hell we had just gone through? What  _ happened _ here tonight? Why are the Death Eaters in the castle--I thought--”

“You succeeded in repairing the Cabinet,” Severus reminded him shortly. “Did you think the Dark Lord would have given you time to prepare yourself?”

Draco knew there was no point in trying to argue with that. They both understood what the bigger picture was, as far as the Dark Lord was concerned with Draco. When he said nothing, and lowered his wand, Severus nodded again, taking that as indication of Draco’s reticent acceptance. “We have to get you out of here. I will not let the Dark Lord harm you.”

“W-what are we going to do?” Draco asked shakily. “If I don’t come back to the Manor, I’ll be labeled a traitor. He’ll kill me if I go home, and he’ll kill me if I run away. I don’t have any options!”

“There is one.” Reaching up, Severus gently grasped the back of Draco’s head, commanding his full attention. “Draco, you need to fake your death. Tonight, here”

There was another blast of flying curses from beyond the closed door, several more voices screaming as chaos reigned; but it felt like Draco could no longer differentiate the sounds very well. Like his ears momentarily became clogged. “You want me to…”

“It is the only way. You said it yourself--the Dark Lord will kill you, one way or another. You can either die by his hands, in your home, in front of your parents, or at the hands of the Death Eaters, many of whom would take delight in torturing you first. And I refuse to let any of them touch you, not again.” Severus’ eyes blazed momentarily, with enough rage to challenge the sun, before he took a deep breath as if to compose himself. “You need to trust me. It is the only chance you have at surviving this night.”

Draco’s breathing was a little unsteady. But now that he was locking onto a potential escape...a chance to never have to be near Voldemort or Nagini or Bellatrix or any of the rest ever again...that ray of hope served to clear his mind somewhat. 

He knew that his godfather was right, but there was still one issue. “I need to tell--”

“If we can, we will, but that cannot be the priority. Do you know where Potter’s Invisibility Cloak is?” Severus asked, and a part of Draco’s mind registered that it was the first time he thought he’d ever heard his godfather say Harry’s name with no sign of contempt or dislike.

With numb fingers, Draco pulled it out from inside his cloak, and Severus nodded, visibly relieved. “You’ll be able to communicate your safety to her eventually. She will not be left in the dark for long, anyway; you’ll need to go directly to the Order. They will be the ones to protect you after tonight. Now--come with me.”

The door was quickly opened, and Severus risked a quick glance to make sure they wouldn’t be seen, before the duo quickly slipped out and resumed running through the corridors. The battle was still raging, with Death Eaters flinging curses haphazardly and without regard for who they struck. Several teachers and quite a lot of DA members--more than Draco even expected--were fighting back, firing jinxes more intentionally at their opponents, clearly trying to overpower the enemy, but just barely being able to make any headway.

It was only then that Draco remembered that he’d given Hermione the remaining Felix Felicis potion. Surely, she would have used it tonight, when the infiltration of the Death Eaters began--if she was smart about it, if she had taken enough, shared the rest, then they had a chance--

A flash of bushy brown hair whipping around the corridor ahead caught Draco’s eye, and without even thinking about it Draco reached out to seize her arm, yanking Hermione around a corner in an effort to hide themselves. Hermione gave a little squeal of shock, before her wide eyes found his face and she sagged a little with relief. “Draco!”

“Dumbledore is dead,” he gasped.

“What--?!”

“Dumbledore is dead,” Draco repeated quickly, clamping a hand over her mouth to make her listen instead of speak. “The Order and the DA have the upper hand here, the Death Eaters are fleeing, but Dumbledore is dead.” He drew a long, deep breath. “And Severus says I need to fake my death, tonight, or I’m not going to live to see tomorrow.”

There was a pause, with Hermione’s infinitely clever mind quickly connecting the dots, and she pulled his hand away from her mouth, capturing it in both of her own. Draco could see the understanding and acceptance settle in, even as grief and fear pinched her beautiful features. “Do it,” she urged him, tears filling her eyes. “But--be careful.”

“I’ll try.” He wanted so badly to kiss her, wanted to hold her for only a few moments longer, feeling like something was swelling in his chest, bubbling up in his throat. Merlin, he just wanted to stay safe in her arms, tucked away from the world where no one could touch him, or her, or anyone that they cared about ever again.

But before he could say anything else, Severus was calling his name sharply. Draco reluctantly let her go, their hands the last thing to break apart. Giving her one last long, searching look, as if trying to memorize her features, Draco finally forced himself to turn and sprint off after his godfather, praying to any holy being in the universe that he would survive long enough to see her again.

The other Death Eaters had already made it outside onto the grounds. Greyback was howling in victory, while Yaxley was swearing under his breath as they pushed towards the gates, unable to Apparate before they were beyond the boundary. Several more cloaked figures that Draco could not recognize in his panic were also running with them. 

He could only assume that they were more Death Eaters, perhaps the same ones whom the Order and the DA had been fighting throughout the castle.

As they were passing the slope where Hagrid’s hut was located, Draco could hear Hagrid yelling with rage, and Fang whimpering and barking in distress. Amycus gave a shout of glee, and raised his wand; with a loud bang, the hut was quickly engulfed in flames. 

Hagrid positively roared at the sight. “ _ Fang is in there, yeh heartless _ \--”

Draco slowed to a staggering jog, staring into the dancing fire with wide eyes. No doubt the hut could be repaired with magic, almost anything could...but his mind was whirling with sudden inspiration.

He looked around to find Severus several yards away watching him, as if trying to see into his mind to know what Draco was thinking as he watched the hut begin to burn in earnest. Following Draco’s gaze, his eyebrows rose; after a brief pause, he traded a look of dawning understanding with his godson. “I will meet you behind the Hog’s Head--”

**_Wham_ ** !

The sudden blow to his back sent Draco sprawling, landing face first into the grass and dirt. He quickly shoved himself back to his feet, spinning around to see Crabbe and Goyle running towards them across the grounds. Crabbe had his wand raised, aimed right at Draco, and he fired another jet of light at him, causing Draco to duck in shock.

“You idiot!” Draco yelled. “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

“Shut up!” Crabbe shouted, looking nearly deranged as he ran closer. “Shut up, shut up, this is all your fault! It should have been  _ me _ with the Dark Mark! I’m more loyal to him than you’ve ever been! I could have completed your task far sooner, you barely did anything!”

“I was doing my job!”

“You were doing  _ nothing _ !” Another curse was flung his way, and Draco just barely was able to deflect it. Crabbe’s aim was improving as he drew nearer. “My family is more loyal than yours, better than yours! At least my family went looking for the Dark Lord after he fell! They had the means to do it discreetly. Your slimy father got out of servicing the Dark Lord faithfully by lying, don’t even try to deny it! And then you were given the Dark Mark.  _ You _ !”

“Yes, me!” Draco snapped. “My family has had power in the entire British Isles for literally centuries, Crabbe. Centuries. Since the time that Hogwarts was founded, the Malfoys have been in power. And what have you got? Maybe six generations of wealth, with plenty of inbreeding to go around--how does that compare? How does that  _ feel _ ?”

Another curse, and another barely-successful deflection. But his taunting was working; Crabbe was getting reckless now, even as Goyle stood by looking distressed, his eyes darting between the two dueling young men like he wasn’t sure what to do.

“You’re worthless,” Crabbe hissed. “I’m in charge here, Malfoy. You’re not worthy of a leadership role. You changed--and it was not for the best. You’re over, you’re done. I’m the one giving orders now--and when I reach the Dark Lord’s side, he will reward me for my good service, I know he will!”

Draco scoffed, moving towards the left, circling Crabbe as the heat of the fire behind him nearly scorched his back. For the first time since Dumbledore had summoned him earlier, Draco was finally calm; he knew exactly what he had to do, and he was embracing his path fully. 

“Good service?” he echoed coldly. “Two failed assassination attempts--drawing unnecessary attention by causing careless collateral damage--you think that’s good service? I had only one job, and I succeeded at it. Because I was  _ patient _ . Because I took the time I needed to get it done. Meanwhile you can’t even kill a halfblood and a blood traitor properly, much less a doddering old fool.” The words hurt as he spat them out, but Draco pushed on.

“I’m  _ loyal-- _ ”

“And loyalty only gets you so far,” Draco cut him off icily. “ _ You’re _ worthless, Crabbe. And you always will be.”

With a final scream of rage, Crabbe flung out his last curse, without noticing that Severus had moved to position himself just outside of Crabbe’s line of eyesight. The older wizard moved his wand too, and while Draco felt the powerful punch from Crabbe’s curse send him flying, he also felt Severus’ spell strike him. 

It hurled him up into the air, sailing the short distance to crash into the crumbling roof of Hagrid’s burning hut; Draco fell through, collapsing into the inferno consuming the little house.

Whatever spell Severus had cast, it formed some type of shimmering shield around Draco’s body that prevented the flames from burning him; he couldn’t even feel the heat of it on his skin. 

Before fear could set in that he was now trapped inside of a building that was swiftly coming down, part of the stone wall behind him crumbled apart, creating a hole that opened directly towards the woods that backed Hagrid’s home.

Draco stumbled to the hole and back outside, his heart twisting with remorse that he couldn’t even risk remaining to help save the structure. He could only keep running, hauling the Cloak out and covering himself with it to avoid detection. Behind him, he could hear Hagrid, and then other voices--it sounded like Professors Flitwick, and Sprout--putting out the fire as Fang howled mournfully, now safely outside.

He lost track of time as he ran, stumbling along the perimeter of the woods and tripping over unseen roots and flora, branches and leaves catching on his clothes and slashing tiny cuts in his skin. Draco barely felt the sting. Eventually he emerged from the forest closest to Hogsmeade, and Draco staggered along the edge of the village until he found the Hog’s Head Inn.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited there, huddled against the pub’s back wall still under the Cloak; gradually the chilly spring night air started to make the various scrapes and bruises on his body ache. There were scattered moments where he would hear footsteps, people running through the village--voices rising--and he supposed that word of the attack on Hogwarts had spread. 

At some point, someone cried out in grief, and Draco could only assume that news of Dumbledore’s death was reaching the people of Hogsmeade. Crouching against the wall, Draco covered his eyes, letting himself feel the weight of his own horror and sorrow for one crippling moment.

He leapt back to his feet when someone came around the corner; to his relief, Severus appeared, disheveled and breathless but unharmed. Draco pulled off the Cloak, keeping it in his hands in case anyone else came within eyesight. 

“We don’t have long,” his godfather said, panting as he reached Draco’s side. “I’m going to Apparate you to the Burrow. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror--” Draco nodded, he knew who the man was. Kingsley was Order, and that was all that mattered to Draco at that moment. “--and he knows the entire story, now.”

Severus began walking, pulling Draco with him, towards the trees and away from the village in order to Apparate. “Shacklebolt has told Arthur and Molly everything they need to know. You’ll be staying there with them for the time being...you can choose for yourself if or when you wish to tell them that you won’t be able to return to Hogwarts in the fall.” Draco paled, and Severus looked at him sadly. “You are presumed dead, as we had intended.”

Draco drew a breath to speak, but Severus had already caught his elbow; with a sharp  _ crack _ , they Disapparated, and Draco stumbled a little as he suddenly found himself in a narrow dirt lane, a few yards from a hedge that lined the yard of what he could only assume was the Burrow. The Weasleys’ home was glowing with light from within, looking as ramshackle and yet warm and cozy and inviting as the family that occupied it. 

“D-does Crabbe think that he killed me?” he asked, shivering despite the mild temperature of the night.

Severus nodded curtly. “He believed his spell flung you into the hut. He watched for a moment, then fled when he determined that you weren’t coming back out.” He sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders now that they were far away from Hogwarts. “Hagrid and some of the staff abandoned the pursuit and set about dousing the fire, so no one but me saw that you escaped.”

“Thank you for the Shield Charm,” Draco whispered. “That was quick thinking on your part.”

His godfather smiled faintly in return. He gave Draco’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, and then he vanished in another loud  _ crack _ .

The front door of the Burrow burst open, making Draco jump; turning, he was surprised to see Sirius Black jogging from the house towards him, coming to meet his cousin. “Thank Merlin you’re safe,” he said, opening the gate and ushering Draco past it. “Here, come through--there’s more protection spells on the property than I can count. We need to stay within the hedgerow.”

He continued his stream of explanation as they headed into the house. “The Weasleys are all at the school now--Bill was attacked by Greyback during the fighting. He’s fine, he’s alive and fine,” Sirius added hastily, when Draco drew up short, almost twisting on his heel as if he actually thought to return to Hogwarts. “But his family’s all with him, understandably.” Sirius made a slight face. “I had to return here because the Ministry started turning up.” His voice grew quieter. “Because of...Dumbledore.”

They stopped in the kitchen, and Sirius was silent for a moment, allowing Draco a moment just to look around and take it all in. 

It really was a lovely little home; he could perfectly imagine Ron and his siblings growing up here, with Molly’s sweetness and Arthur’s eccentricities making their childhood full of love and laughter.

“Why did they send you here?” Sirius asked at length, when Draco had managed to relax some. He removed his shoes and hung the Invisibility Cloak over an overstuffed armchair in the corner. “Of course I’m thrilled you’re not stuck at the Manor, given everything, but....”

Draco drew a shaky breath, looking back at his older cousin with a tired expression. “I...the Death Eaters think I was killed on accident. During their retreat.” He swallowed, trying to make his voice steadier. “That way I won’t have to continue pretending. That I’m on their side.”

Sirius looked surprised, and then mildly approving; he even offered Draco a wry little almost-smile. “Well. Congratulations on your death, then.”

“I...I’m very tired,” Draco replied softly, and Sirius nodded at once.

“Right, of course.” Sirius gestured toward the stairs, and Draco slowly followed him up the winding steps. “Ron’s room is right here, first on the right after the bathroom--this floor’s just him, and Ginny, and the twins’ old room. He’s still got this old camping cot for his guests, that’s where you’ll be...”

Once Draco was settled, sitting slumped on the edge of the cot that was across the sloped-ceilinged room from Ron’s bed--unmistakable, with its faded Gryffindor-colored bedding and the garish poster of the Chudley bloody Canons hung above it--Sirius excused himself with a gentle promise to be right downstairs if Draco needed him.

Alone, the teenager looked around the small space. His stomach clenched when he saw that the cot had a tiny bedside table, upon which there sat a framed photograph of Ron, Hermione, and Harry Potter. Draco estimated it to be from their third year, perhaps, given the trio’s obvious youth; they were laughing at the photo-taker, arms hooked around one another and postures relaxed, unafraid. They had no idea of the horrors to come the following year.

Draco suddenly remembered Hermione punching him in the nose for his treatment of Hagrid and Buckbeak that year, her face glowing with fiery determination, rage alight in those gorgeous hazel eyes. Despite the grim context of the memory, Draco couldn’t help smiling.

He shifted further back onto the cot, leaning on his hands and debating sleeping until the Weasleys returned--and then Draco felt the hard circular shape still in his back pocket. 

The Horcrux.

Drawing it out by its long golden chain, Draco let it dangle in front of his face, and he frowned. Something was wrong; something was off about the locket, and not because it was supposed to be a vessel containing a fractured piece of a psychopath’s soul.

With trembling fingers, Draco pressed the clasp. To his horror, the locket opened promptly, no Dark Magic keeping it sealed to protect what should have been its invaluable, terrible contents. Prying it open, Draco’s brow furrowed at the sight of a folded piece of parchment tucked where a photo would traditionally be. The handwriting inside the note was unfamiliar as Draco laid it out to read.

_ To the Dark Lord. _

_ I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more. _

_ R.A.B.  _

Grief closed around Draco’s throat like a vise, invisible fingers clenching around his airway and vocal cords and keeping him frozen, silent, the only outward expression of his pain the tears that slowly welled up in his eyes. They slid down his cheeks, burning hot against his skin, cold from either being outside, or from how bloodless and broken his body felt.

Their mission had been pointless. This was not a Horcrux. Dumbledore had weakened himself by drinking that terrible potion for nothing. Draco only stopped himself from tearing the parchment to shreds because he needed to show it to Ron and Hermione, when they arrived back.

In the meantime, he refolded the page and put it back inside the locket, which he held tightly in his closed fist, pressed to his chest. Then he curled up on his side and closed his eyes, tears continuing to soundlessly drip into the pillow under his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Along with the Sectumsempra bathroom scene, this chapter contained some of the stuff that we started detailing right from the start, and it turned out so goooooood. :D


	26. The Wolves All Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The old Draco Malfoy was dead. It was time to let go of the past."

His mind was racing too fast for him to even try to think coherently, trying to process the events of the last several hours. Just that evening, Dumbledore had been certain he had found a Horcrux, and he’d been prepared to destroy it to further weaken their enemy. 

It had only been tonight when they journeyed to that damned cave and suffered through the hell that they found there, and then returned to Hogwarts...just so that Dumbledore could die, and Draco was forced to leave everything he knew behind. 

It felt like the memories were crashing through his brain all at once, pressure building inside of his skull, until he nearly wanted to scream.

Unable to just lay there and cry anymore--there would be enough time for that, once this war was over and done with--Draco made himself get up. He wiped his face dry and shoved the locket underneath his pillow, then stalked to the bathroom, staring at his own pale, haggard face in the mirror. 

He was still so young--and only in that second did Draco suddenly realize, with a shock, that he was seventeen already--but he could see the weight of time and change and suffering, visible in his eyes. They looked older, and didn’t quite fit his youthful features. And for one horrible moment, dressed as he was, with his hair having gotten long enough for him to need to tie it back from his face...Draco looked far too much like Lucius.

In a flash of anger, he reached into the cupboard, finding a pair of scissors; with a harsh, hacking motion, he cut his small ponytail clean off, throwing it into the sink. Taking his wand and pointing it at his head, Draco guided it with a muttered spell, tidying the jagged edges and further trimming around his ears. 

With more careful movements than he’d used holding the scissors, Draco shaved the bottom half of his hair away, then styled the rest to fall a bit forward, giving his appearance a slightly more mature, contemporary look.

The old Draco Malfoy was dead. It was time to let go of the past.

Suddenly hearing movements from outside, Draco looked out the bathroom window, finding the Order members--as well as Ron, Hermione and Ginny--returning to the Burrow. They all looked disheveled, a few of them limping or supporting each other.

Fresh strength flooded through his body, and Draco left the bathroom, running down the stairs to see everyone trooping in, looking utterly exhausted. Hermione looked ready to cry with relief when they made eye contact, but the atmosphere felt too wrong for him to try and hug her.

“Dumbledore is dead,” Kingsley said, his baritone voice heavy with regret. There was no sense in beating around the bush, not after the battle they had all just endured.

“No!” Molly gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth and sagging sideways into the wall. “How can that be?”

“I saw his body myself,” Kingsley replied, and everyone looked even more somber, like a dark cloud was settling over their heads. “The Killing Curse, most likely.”

Sitting down between Tonks and Sirius, Remus looked as if he had been punched in the gut. His gaze jumped from face to face, as if waiting for someone to refute Kingsley’s words; when nobody did, he sank forward with a low groan, his hands covering his face. Draco had never seen the older man look so broken before, and he felt as though he was intruding upon something private. He looked away and subsequently caught Ron’s eye, nodding when his friend gave him a look as if asking if he had known this.

Draco felt his stomach twisting into a hard knot again. He looked around the room, at the people he had grown to care for so deeply, who had come to care for him and trust him in turn...and he wondered how he was going to be able to explain that Severus had been the one who struck the blow. Too many people here already struggled to trust his godfather; how could Draco persuade them that there had to be more to the story? He didn’t even know all the details, himself.

Thankfully, he was spared from having to find a way. A screech was heard from outside, and then a familiar snowy owl appeared at the window, fluttering in carrying a package bound to her leg. She landed on the table in the center of the room, her chest puffed out importantly as she confidently presented her delivery.

“Hedwig.” Arthur looked a bit startled. “I didn’t even realize she had left the Burrow.”

“What does she have?” Molly asked.

Carefully, Remus forced himself to his feet, striding towards the little owl and extending his hand. Hedwig welcomed a small scratch on the head before allowing Remus to untie the parcel around her leg, and then she fluttered off to a nearby perch. Attached to the box was a letter, which Remus opened, eyes scanning it swiftly before they widened in shock. “It’s from Dumbledore. He wrote it before his death, to be sent to us if...once he was gone.”

“What?” Sirius half-rose to his feet as well, looking baffled. “But how can that be?”

“Apparently he knew that this was going to happen,” Remus said, eyes scanning to the end of the letter. “It’s been waiting in Severus’ possession, to send at the right time. He’s also sent the Pensieve and…hm…”

“What?” Ron asked. “Why did he send a Pensieve?”

In answer, Remus set the letter down, pulling out his wand and flicking it to allow the parcel to fall open. The Pensieve lay inside, smaller than Draco was used to seeing it; freed from its packaging, the basin quivered and then spun once, silently, expanding back to its normal size and diameter.

Beside it sat a vial filled with the familiar glow of stored memories. Remus uncorked it and tipped the contents into the Pensieve, then murmured a spell; Draco’s eyes widened in surprise as what looked like white smoke was exhaled over the rim of the bowl, and spread across the table, until the clear figures of Dumbledore and Severus become visible in miniature.

It appeared to be nighttime in the memory, and Dumbledore was sagged sideways in the throne-like chair behind his desk, looking only semiconscious. His right hand dangled over the side, blackened and burned, by the curse that Draco now knew had been caused by Marvolo’s ring, which lay on the desk with the stone cracked down the middle. Gryffindor’s sword rested at the Headmaster’s side. 

Severus was kneeling beside him, working on the blackened hand, wand pointed right at it as he muttered furiously under his breath, a mixture of spells that Draco vaguely recognized. Eventually, with his free hand, he picked up a goblet filled with a thick golden potion, and tipped it at Dumbledore’s mouth, forcing the old man to drink. After a moment or two, Dumbledore’s eyes fluttered open.

“Why,” Severus asked without preamble, his voice tight with anxiety, “ _Why_ did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?”

A grimace crossed Dumbledore’s frail-looking face. “I was a fool...sorely tempted…”

“Tempted by what?”

Dumbledore did not answer him.

It seemed that Severus was too furious to press him on the matter. “It is a miracle you managed to return here,” he snarled. “That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for. I’ve trapped the curse in one hand for the time being--”

Dumbledore raised his hand then, eyeing the useless blackened fingers with an expression of one being shown an interesting novelty item. “You have done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?” His tone was disturbingly light, as if inquiring about a Quidditch score rather than his own inevitable demise.

There was a pause, and then Severus sighed. “I cannot tell. A year, at best, if we are being optimistic. There is no halting such a curse forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of magic that strengthens over time.”

Shockingly, Dumbledore smiled; the news that he had perhaps a year to live did not seem to bother him too deeply. “I am very fortunate, then, that I have you, Severus. Thank you.”

“If you had summoned me the moment that it happened, I might have been able to do more,” Severus said, clearly agitated. “I could have possibly bought you more time.” His dark eyes went to the broken ring on the desktop, and then to Gryffindor’s sword leaning against Dumbledore’s chair. “Did you think that shattering the ring would break the curse?”

Dumbledore waved his uninjured hand distractedly. “Something like that, I am sure...I was no doubt delirious...” With great visible effort, he straightened up in his chair. “Well, then. This really makes matters much more straightforward, I think.” Severus looked at him with confusion, and Dumbledore smiled rather sadly. “I am referring, of course, to Lord’s Voldemort’s plan for me...to have young Draco Malfoy murder me, or attempt to.”

In the Burrow’s little den, there was a loud collective gasp from all around the Pensieve. Everyone gathered looked over at Draco with open shock and horror; Hermione let out a squeak of dismay, now understanding the task that he had constantly been kept from confiding to her due to his Unbreakable Vow. 

Draco shook his head in silence, keeping his steely gaze locked fiercely on the petite, pearly figures of Dumbledore and Severus. He had no answers for them just yet, so there was no sense in them asking him their questions.

Severus’ small face was etched into a hard scowl. “The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely a punishment for Lucius’ recent failures. A slow torture for Draco’s parents, as they watch their son struggle and then fail, and pay the price.”

Draco swallowed back a wave of grief as it welled through his chest; he had been well-aware of that already. He had known that it was punishment for Lucius...though he hadn’t really accepted, until Severus stated it aloud earlier that evening, that the inevitable conclusion was his death, either in battle or as payment for failing. 

He felt Molly touch his shoulder, clearly overwhelmed by a maternal protective instinct, and Draco leaned wordlessly into the press of her hand in silent gratitude. He supposed by now Narcissa had been told of his “death;” Draco did not know what to feel, imagining his own mother grappling with this loss.

He had always known that he was “special”. Not by magic, or intelligence, but simply because he was his mother’s miracle child. Narcissa had nearly given up hope on conceiving a baby, and the shame that would have no doubt followed would have probably broken her. Having Draco, her dreams had come true, and now he had ripped that dream right out of her hands. It was for the greater good, truly, and he hoped against hope that he would survive the war, that Narcissa would survive the war, and they could be reunited.

But for now, deep within himself, he knew her world was shattered. And he didn’t think he would ever forgive himself for causing her that kind of agony.

Beside the circlet of the Pensieve, Dumbledore’s small figure nodded solemnly. “In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” he said. “Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?”

There was a short pause, and Severus’ face twisted with a mixture of emotions; because Draco knew his godfather well, he thought that he saw flashes of pain, anger, and something deeper and darker, something frightened, in the Potions master’s features. “That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan.”

This prompted more small jumps and gasps from the people gathered around Draco. He heard Remus curse under his breath, his hand white-knuckled around Tonks’. Draco blinked, glancing at their faces and seeing the way that his Metamorphmagus cousin was leaning into Remus’ side and rubbing his arm comfortingly with her free hand. He caught Hermione’s eye, and she followed his flickering gaze at the Auror and the werewolf; she, too, blinked in surprise, sending Draco a minute one-shouldered shrug.

They could unpack that new information later. Now, the memory glowing beside the Pensieve was far more pressing.

“Lord Voldemort imagines a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?” Dumbledore inquired, as if he was asking Severus about the weather forecast.

Severus’ face remained set in something of a semi-neutral grimace. “He believes that the school will soon be in his grasp, so...yes.” 

“And if it does fall into his grasp,” Dumbledore went on, almost, it seemed, as an aside, “I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students of Hogwarts?” From his tone, Draco had the feeling that the two men had discussed this more than once. But just as the Headmaster had ensured through reiteration that Draco would keep his promises, earlier that night, so he seemed to have done with Severus.

Snape gave a stiff nod, not seeming to trust himself to reply aloud. Dumbledore appeared to accept this as sufficient. “Good. Now then...your first priority will be to assist Draco in whatever he is pressed to do, in order to appear compliant with his orders. I am concerned less for myself than for any accidental victims as he proceeds.” 

Draco closed his eyes, wondering if Dumbledore had ever, even for a moment, thought that his actions on Voldemort’s orders were the cause of the failed attempts that had harmed Katie Bell, and Ron. He would never be able to ask, now.

“Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath,” Dumbledore added, and somehow those words soothed Draco; the Headmaster had been truly committed to protecting him from the Dark Lord, even when he himself was bloody dying.

Severus raised his eyebrows, and his tone was sardonic as he asked, “Are you intending to let him kill you?” 

“Certainly not. You must kill me.”

No one gasped this time; Remus let out a terrible, wounded noise, more like a wolf’s whimper than anything Draco had ever heard from the former professor. Hermione and Ginny both covered their mouths, and Ron paled enough to resemble an Inferi. Arthur reached out to support his wife as Molly swayed slightly in place, thought her hand remained firm on Draco’s shoulder.

For his part, Draco stared at Dumbledore’s tiny figure, wondering how they could have spent so many fucking meetings together, so many evenings and hours, so much _time_ ...and he had never _warned_ Draco.

There was a long silence between the wizards in the Pensieve. “Would you like me to go ahead and do it now?” Severus asked, his voice heavy with irony. His expression now showed muted horror. “Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?” 

“Oh, not quite yet,” Dumbledore replied, smiling as if this conversation was all in good fun and not about who would be the man to murder him. “I daresay the moment will present itself in due course. Given what has happened tonight--” he indicated his withered hand. “--we can be sure now that it will happen within a year.” 

“If you don’t mind dying,” Severus asked roughly, “Then why not just let Draco do it?”

Draco made a broken sound of his own at hearing that, the first audible thing from him since coming downstairs. He could not even fathom his revulsion at the very idea, and he had no idea how Severus could say those words out loud, even if he didn’t mean them in the slightest.

“That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” Dumbledore said gravely. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“And my soul, Dumbledore?” Now there was something ragged and almost pleading in Severus’ voice, and Draco hated it. He wanted to step into the memory and embrace his godfather, to promise him that he was a good man, even in this strange and twisted plot. “What of mine?”

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” Dumbledore said simply. “I ask this one great favor of you, Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year’s league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved—I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it.” 

Draco closed his eyes for a heartbeat. He wondered if Dumbledore had felt fear in that moment, standing atop the Astronomy Tower. Had he thought that perhaps Severus would not reach them in time, and that he would be forced to allow one of those sadistic monsters to take him, in order to preserve Draco from the act?

Dumbledore’s tone had been light as he spoke, but his blue eyes pierced Severus as they had frequently pierced Draco, as though the very soul that they were discussing was visible to him. At last, Severus gave another curt nod. Dumbledore seemed satisfied. 

“Thank you, Severus...”

The smoky-white figures dissolved back into the substance overflowing from the Pensieve and seemed to reverse-spill back into the silver basin. Before anyone could move, though, the wispy substance once more surged over the rim and poured out, reforming--this time, Draco realized with a jolt, it was the Astronomy Tower that took vague shape, with Dumbledore and Severus once more the only clear part of the recollection.

The Headmaster was staring out over the edge of the battlement, while Severus stood glaring at his back, arms crossed over his chest almost sulkily. “I do not wish to do this anymore, Dumbledore. You ask too much!”

“You swore to me, Severus.” Dumbledore’s voice was low and vibrant, unyielding. “You gave me your vow. You _must_ do this for me. In order to keep Lord Voldemort’s trust in you, and in order to remain on at Hogwarts to protect the students. I cannot allow harm to befall them after I am gone.”

This memory, too, dissolves and slid back into the Pensieve. Nothing more was forthcoming; the basin quivered and then re-shrank itself to the form it had arrived in, and flew through the air to settle on the top shelf of the nearest bookcase. Draco stared at its small shape, wondering if Dumbledore had known that its new home would be at the Burrow, or if it had simply been enchanted to go wherever the Order was. Or wherever he was.

Tonks was the first to break the silence. “Was...was Snape really a...a double agent? All this time?” she asked, her voice wavering. “I mean--I know, we all knew that Dumbledore trusted him completely, wouldn’t hear a word against him, but--he _was_ still serving Voldemort? _For_ Dumbledore?”

At last, Draco found his voice. “Yes,” he said hollowly. All eyes turned to him, but this time he did not flinch or refuse to return their gazes. He sought Hermione out among them, and she looked at him with something that would have been an almost-smile, if her face wasn’t so drawn with sorrow; she nodded encouragement.

Draco stood, surprised to find that his knees were not shaking as he had expected they would. He removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeve wordlessly, revealing the Dark Mark emblazoned on his arm. Somehow it looked more vibrant, and far uglier, after seeing its counterpart glowing grimly in the night sky.

“Dumbledore was right--about Lord Voldemort using me to penalize my parents,” Draco said, his voice short and breathless. No one was moving, almost seeming to not be breathing, as they stared at him or his arm in raw disbelief. “He--Professor Dumbledore--was helping me all year to survive. As was Severus, of course. They helped me toe the line, while still doing all that I could for...for you all, for the Order. But I also had to play at fulfilling my assignment.”

He drew a deep breath, feeling the oxygen seeping into his lungs as if it was physically bolstering him. “I was with Professor Dumbledore earlier tonight, before we returned to find the Mark over the school.” 

Remus cleared his throat, beginning to interrupt him, but Draco just raised his hand to stop him. “I promised Dumbledore my secrecy on the matter,” he told the older man, holding his gaze. “And that is that. I won’t break that promise.” The adults around him looked stunned at such firm words from a teenager, but Draco simply pressed on.

“When we did return, Dumbledore ordered me to disarm him; the Death Eaters came onto the Tower platform in time to see what appeared to be my successfully cornering him.” Draco rolled his sleeve back down, mostly just for something to do with his hands, and to not have to return any of their horrified looks for a moment’s respite. “The Death Eaters had infiltrated, and found us up there...and then Severus came as well...and...it seems, then, that Severus fulfilled _his_ promise to Dumbledore.”

There was a long pause, broken only by Hedwig’s feathers rustling slightly and the occasional click of her beak, cleaning herself from her flight to deliver Dumbledore’s final message.

At length, Kingsley spoke. “Where do the Death Eaters believe you to be right now, Draco?”

The teenager smiled bitterly. “Severus helped me out there, as well. The enemy now believes that my classmate Vincent Crabbe petulantly threw me into Hagrid’s hut as it was burning, and that I did not make it out again. Until this is all over...I will have to avoid any contact with Voldemort’s people.” Draco swallowed. “I can’t return to Hogwarts.”

Molly made a sound like a huff, then, and Draco thought for a moment that she was actually going to protest that--something only a parent could possibly think of doing in such a moment. 

But Ron spoke before his mother could. “Well, Draco’ll stay with me in my room from now on, obviously. Right? The Burrow will be the best place for him to hide for now. Between the protections we’ve got on it, and the fact that no one would assume he’s associated with us.”

“Yes--yes, of course,” Molly agreed, sighing as she squeezed Draco’s shoulder; Arthur, too, smiled at him reassuringly. “Of course you’re welcome here.”

“We’re all going to go back to Hogwarts in the next few days, though,” Ginny mentioned, staring vaguely at the fireplace as she spoke. “For Dumbledore’s funeral. Then we come right back home again, for Bill and Fleur’s wedding...”

Everyone else nodded. Draco blinked, trying to fathom the proximity of two such disparate events so close together. He supposed he wouldn’t be able to join the others in going to pay their final respects to the fallen Headmaster...

“Well,” Molly said, shaking herself off. “Let’s...let’s all start by getting some rest. This has been...well. Sleep, sleep is what we all need.” She smiled gently at Draco, patting his back as she started towards the kitchen. “Tomorrow I’ll get started on sorting some clothing for you, dear, I can resize things from my pile of boys in a jiffy.”

The Order members took their leave slowly, all of them pausing to say goodbye to Draco. Tonks hugged him tightly, and Draco let himself return the grip; he was clearly going to be getting to know his long-lost cousins far better this summer. 

The notion made him feel a little better, as it was something pleasant to look forward to--along with the wedding, of course. He hadn’t even thought about that, but Draco was infinitely glad that something so wonderful was coming to the Weasley family.

The group of teens made their way upstairs; Hermione was staying as well, for convenience and for safety, and would be sharing Ginny’s room as she usually did. Ron went right for his room and all but collapsed into his bed without even changing into sleeping clothes. Draco rolled his eyes fondly at his friend’s comatose figure as he changed, willing to accept that tonight would not be the time to discuss the tragic truth of the locket Horcrux.

He slipped from the room to go brush his teeth, and paused when he saw Hermione leaving the bathroom. Spotting him, she brightened slightly, and took his hand to draw him back into the small room without a word. Immediately she pulled him into a tight hug that did far more than anything else that evening to soothe Draco’s frayed spirits.

“I am so sorry I didn’t know,” she whispered in his ear. “I could have helped you more, been a better support--I should have found a way to figure it out, just because you couldn’t tell me outright--”

“Hush,” Draco said gently, shaking his head a little as he drew back. “You’re right, I was bound by my Vow. I couldn’t have even confirmed it if you _had_ somehow guessed--he was that thorough in making it impossible for me to slip up. And I doubt someone with your heart would ever have realized that he would be _that_ demented--to order a teenager to do...that.” He lifted his hand, cradling her cheek tenderly and smiling when Hermione leaned easily into the caress. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all over, now.”

She nodded, then frowned a little. “I hate that you can’t come to the funeral,” she grumbled. “That’s just wrong, it’s--you of all people, you deserve to be there...”

Draco smirked, though the expression felt strained. “Leave that to me. Just meet me at the edge of the Forest behind Hagrid’s hut after the service, alright?” Hermione opened her mouth, clearly ready to fret and offer protest, but Draco put a finger over her lips. “Promise me.”

She huffed a sigh, shoulders sagging before she puckered her lips to kiss the finger silencing him; a tiny grin touched her mouth when Draco inhaled sharply at that. “Fine. I promise. But be _careful_.”

“When am I not?” he shot back, making her roll her eyes with visible affection. Draco glanced back out at the landing, taking in all of the odds and ends that showed which Weasley siblings had rooms on this floor--though Fred and George’s childhood bedroom door was closed, since the twins now kept a flat over their shop in Diagon Alley.

Looking back at Hermione, Draco suddenly smiled wider, the expression feeling authentic for the first time all night. “I just realized that this means...no more sneaking around. No one to hide from, as far as being seen together.”

Hermione looked startled, and then delighted. “You’re right,” she said, her eyes lighting up. She glanced towards Ron’s cracked-open bedroom door, and her expression faltered. “I mean--okay, don’t, please don’t take this the wrong way, but we do need to be somewhat careful still--just, with everything so unbalanced and chaotic--”

“I know,” Draco cut off her flustered rambling, smiling despite himself at how endearing Hermione was when she was trying to make herself understood, afraid of offending someone she cared about. “I get that. I promise. I just meant, you know--”

“No more Silencing Charms on bathroom doors and ducking into alcoves and depending on the invisibility Cloak,” Hermione agreed, relaxing and grinning. “Thank _Merlin_.” Her eyes roamed over his face, and she reached up, toying with one of the blonde curls falling over his forehead from the casual way he had restyled his hair. “I like this, by the way. The length was nice too, but...this seems like...”

“Like I picked it for myself,” Draco filled in, smirking as she nodded sheepishly. “That was the idea behind hacking it off. I’m glad you approve."

From beyond the nearby bedroom door, Ron’s snoring grew a little louder; Hermione stifled a yawn of her own. “Right, time for that sleep that Mrs. Weasley was prescribing,” Draco advised, and she nodded, smiling sleepily at him. “To my infinite joy...I will see you in the morning,” he added, and then just to see that blushing that he loved so much, Draco lifted her hand, kissing the back of her knuckles. Her cheeks turned as rosy as he’d hoped, and she giggled quietly.

If for no other reason than that he _could_ , Draco kept his hold on her hand; Hermione caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and Draco felt as if he was physically helpless to resist the urge to lean forward. She released her bitten lip with a quick inhale, and Draco pressed his mouth to hers, absorbing that little sound and lifting his free hand to cup her face, savoring one fearless moment of simply getting to have this.

She looked rather starstruck when he drew back, and Draco felt a touch smug at that. “Goodnight,” he repeated, smirking as he slowly let her go. He backed away, pausing at Ron’s door and watching as Hermione returned to Ginny’s room, peeking back at him with one last coy little smile before she vanished.

* * *

Draco was not the type to sleep in--but he did the following morning, and he felt rather justified in that. Ron, too, was still asleep when Draco did finally rise, finding a pair of jeans and a simple red long-sleeved shirt folded outside of the closed bedroom door for him. They fit perfectly, and Draco was smiling a little as he brushed his hair and teeth, then went downstairs.

The kitchen smelled marvelous, and Draco could see various cooking utensils merrily at work, enchanted to continue the food preparation as Molly sat at a lovely old-fashioned sewing table in the corner, supervising her sewing supplies as they labored to tailor some more clothing.

“Oh, good, they fit,” she said, looking up at him and beaming when she saw his outfit. “I put the things you were wearing yesterday in the wash with the rest of ours--wasn’t sure if you actually wanted to keep them, but they’ll be clean either way.” Leaving her needles to their work, Molly rose to come over to Draco, cupping his face and then full-on embracing him. “You look better after some rest...and some food will do you splendidly.” Glancing at his hair, her smile turned soft and maternal. “You did that quite well all by yourself--did you used to cut your own hair?”

Draco shook his head, shrugging ruefully. “No, but I was _very_ well-trained in maintaining a flawless appearance. Honestly, I could probably cut anyone’s hair and make it look like I had some barber experience. If there is one thing that I know, it is how to look ‘proper.’”

The door to the garden opened and Hermione and Ginny entered, each carrying a basket with a few eggs. Draco stepped back as Molly went to take the baskets, thanking the girls before moving to add the eggs for the apparently massive breakfast that she was preparing for her bustling household. 

“I should have a good stack of clothing all set for you by this evening,” she promised Draco over her shoulder. “I just sorted through things from all the boys--Ron has plenty that he never wears anymore or outgrew, and the twins left behind things they didn’t want anymore. Some from Bill and Charlie, too...”

“That’s perfect. Thank you, I really--that’s very generous,” Draco told her, and Molly looked relieved that he wasn’t displeased by the change in fashion standards. 

Draco supposed there was no need to mention that he doubted he’d ever want to return to stiff suits and formal wizarding wear ever again. Like his long hair, it had simply felt too much like his father.

He looked over at Hermione and found that she had a peculiar expression on her face. Seeing his raised eyebrows, she just smiled faintly. “I don’t actually think I’ve ever seen you wear red that vibrant before,” she teased, nodding at his shirt. “You’re inheriting from a literal heap of Gryffindor boys.”

Draco grimaced, lifting his arm to examine the contrast of the crimson cotton and his cream-colored hand. “Well, it’s a leap from my normal cool-weather aesthetic, granted...but I suppose I could say it’s...Christmas-berry-red. There, that’s wintery.”

Laughing, she gestured for him to follow her as they headed upstairs; Ginny remained back to help Molly with the food.

Ron was awake finally, and he greeted them blearily as they entered his bedroom. Figuring it was something of a _say it while you can_ situation, Draco closed the door behind them, and added a Silencing Charm for good measure. Hermione sat on the floor against Ron’s dresser, and Draco went to his cot, pulling the locket out from under his pillow and holding it up to show them.

Hermione gasped, and Ron leaned forward, eyes wide. “You--you found it? I figured Dumbledore would have been holding it...”

“He handed it to me when we returned to Hogsmeade and saw the Dark Mark over the Tower,” Draco said softly. “I suppose he knew that his and Severus’ plan might have to be carried out.” Swallowing hard, Draco stepped forward and handed it to Hermione first. “But...”

“It’s not the--it’s just a locket.” Hermione had clearly seen and felt what Draco had, the instant that the little gold oval was in her hand. “This isn’t Slytherin’s.” Draco shook his head, and Ron eased off his bed onto the floor, scooting closer to examine it with her. “Is there anything--oh.” She popped it open, taking out the note, and when Draco nodded encouragingly, Hermione read it out loud in a near-whisper.

“Who the bloody hell is R.A.B.?” Ron asked, looking shell-shocked. “Blimey, You-Know-Who was an idiot, tons of people seemed to have known about the sodding Horcruxes...”

“Well,” Hermione said slowly, reading the note again to herself. “From this...I can’t help thinking that perhaps it wasn’t just anyone--this R.A.B., I mean. He writes as if...as if he was one of Voldemort’s people. Before he did this.”

“A Death Eater,” Draco said slowly, looking at her in surprise. “You think so? Someone who turned on him after willingly serving, like Severus did?”

“I mean...the wording, in his letter,” Hermione said slowly, her brow furrowed like it always was, when she was working through a particularly difficult assignment. “He said that he wanted Voldemort to know that it was him who took the real Horcrux, even if he’s dead when it’s discovered. So Voldemort would recognize his initials, presumably...and who would he care about beyond the Death Eaters in his closest circle?”

They were all quiet for a moment, contemplating that possibility. Draco was fairly sure that Hermione was correct, but it was hardly as if he knew the full ranks of the Death Eaters--even the current roster. He had no idea who might have been among Voldemort’s followers during his initial rise, before his attempt on Harry’s life.

“Well...leaving that for later discussion,” Draco said at length. “I’ve been thinking about this next year.” He met each of their eyes. “I can’t go back to Hogwarts, obviously--Severus said that Voldemort intends to take power there, with Dumbledore gone, and that seems likely to be likely given everything going wrong with the Ministry.”

Draco took a deep breath. “I think I need to continue the job that Dumbledore was doing; that has to be why he let me in on it, and took me along this last time. Voldemort cannot be killed while any Horcruxes still exist, and that means that the rest _have_ to be hunted down, and destroyed. Even the locket, I’ve got to confirm that this R.A.B. fellow did actually end it.”

Ron’s reply was prompt, not a trace of hesitation in his voice. “Well, of course we have to. You didn’t guess from the first night of memory sessions that that was why he wanted you along? Hermione did.”

“Wait, no--” Draco’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I’m not saying--”

Hermione reached out to grab his hand, tugging him down to sit on the floor with them. “Shush,” she murmured, and gave him the most stern look he thought he’d had aimed at him in over a year, at least from Hermione Granger. “If you go, we go. After all...” 

She paused, swallowing, but a nod from Ron made her press on. “Well, Hogwarts is going to get much more dangerous now, especially if Snape’s right and it’s taken over. I shouldn’t go back, myself. If Voldemort’s running the place, then Muggleborns will be in danger--and it won’t be repairable like it was in our second year.”

“Blood traitors, too,” Ron added calmly, handing the worthless locket back to Draco. The blonde didn’t know if Ron recognized that he preferred having it in his own hands or if he just didn’t want to hold onto it, himself, but he appreciated it; Draco slid it into his pocket, the weight serving as a reminder of what they were facing. And what they had yet to do.

He deflated finally. “Okay...I see your point,” Draco allowed, shaking his head in bemusement. “Bloody hell, you two are the most stubborn and determined Gryffindors I ever--”

“Clearly you’re letting yourself forget Harry’s better traits,” Ron cut him off, smirking. From the floor below, they could hear Molly calling for them, and the redhead sighed and heaved himself to his feet. “C’mon--let’s eat, can’t do any serious planning on empty stomachs.”

Draco stood as well, helping Hermione up--and if their fingers lingered hooked together a moment before they followed Ron, then that was just between the two of them--and sighed. “I don’t entirely know where to begin, as far as planning,” he admitted to them as they headed for the stairs. “And no one else can overhear any of it, it’d endanger them to know any details of what we’ll be doing.”

“We’ll manage,” Hermione promised him firmly. “I’ve already got some ideas, and not everything will need to be worked on all together. The wedding planning will keep everyone distracted, anyway--we’ll be juggling for a bit, but the business will help. Don’t fret.”

Breakfast was the massive affair that Draco had expected it to be, with a little bit of absolutely everything cooked up and served on the enormous dining room table. Draco didn’t feel particularly hungry, still a little twisted up inside after the dark events of the past few days; but it all smelled fabulous, and he knew that there was no sense in slipping into unhealthy eating habits. Besides, Ron was right. Empty stomachs did no one any good, especially when things weren’t going well.

Once everyone was fed, Molly smiled at the brood of teenagers grouped around her table. “Well, it’s your summer holidays, now,” she said, and she sounded positive even if there was a quiver to her bottom lip. Draco could see that she worked hard to give her children a calm, comforting parent to look to at all times. “And we’ve nearly two months before the wedding. You lot need more than one night’s rest to recover from the week you’ve had, so...go on, all of you.”

“We can help you clean up--” Hermione began, but Molly waved her off.

“Nonsense,” she chuckled. “Go on, I’ve got it. Get along, now.”

Hermione looked ready to continue arguing, but Ginny just pulled her along with a fond eye roll. “We haven’t gotten to hang out in forever,” the younger girl told her, looking pleading. “Come on, summer’s always a thousand times better when you stay--less testosterone everywhere.”

Hermione grinned despite herself, nodding and shooting Ron and Draco an apologetic smile as she was drawn upstairs. “Yes, true, alright. We’ll have us some girl time, then.”

Ron looked at Draco with a smirk. “Y’know, I’m forever both curious, and terrified, about what they talk about when they go off alone like that.” He paused, raising his eyebrows. “So, what should we do, then? Ginny’ll probably keep ‘Mione for a few hours, she really is Gin’s best mate.”

Draco hesitated, but he knew he needed to be honest. “Actually...if you don’t mind, Ron, I kind of think I need to just take a little time to clear my head. Maybe wander around outside for a bit--I won’t leave the property boundaries, I know the protection spells are in place, but...”

“I get it.” Ron’s face was uncharacteristically soft, a look in his eyes that Draco recognized at once. Sometimes he forgot that the noisy, energetic ginger did, in fact, understand grief at the depth that Draco so often felt drowned by it. After all, Ron had lost his best friend in the world, to the same war that Draco felt had stripped away his own innocence. 

“Take your time,” Ron went on. “I’m going to go work on my broomstick. Might owl Fred and George, see if they can’t swing out for the evening. Maybe some Quidditch scrimmage.”

Draco could have hugged the ginger, if he wasn’t feeling too raw to even be near anyone right then. “Thank you, Ron.”

He left the kitchen and stepped out into the yard, pausing just to take in his surroundings in the daylight. It was definitely a far cry from Malfoy Manor, where the grass was always perfectly cut; the expansive gardens were almost always in full bloom; and his father’s peacocks meandered the hedge maze nearby, all proud with their white plumage and fluffy tails. Draco had never really enjoyed the peacocks, not since one of them had bitten him for the offense of trying to pet one of their young when he was a child, and he had a feeling that the dislike was mutual.

The Burrow’s yard was larger than he expected, but still small enough to feel cozy. It was outlined by the fence, and the hedges covered in wildflowers, and he could smell wild honeysuckle growing right by the protective boundary. The chicken coop nearby housed some of the clucking birds, which pecked about the lawn curiously, though they kept a wary distance from the stranger in their midst. 

Out here in the country, everything felt somehow both quiet, yet more chaotic than the landscape around the Manor. Draco found that he enjoyed it far more than he ever thought possible; he wondered if he could attribute it to finally befriending the Weasleys themselves.

Wandering, he eventually found a small private alcove, offering a brief respite from everyone else just for a short time. Draco sprawled onto his back in the grass, staring up into the sky. It was a beautiful bright blue, with large white clouds drifting past, and for a moment, he felt a bit bitter, that the day would be so lovely, and yet almost everything around him was so wrong. 

Dumbledore was dead. Voldemort thought he had won a great victory. And Draco’s own family thought that Draco had perished violently.

The thought crossed his mind then; would Crabbe be punished for “murdering” one of their own? Or would Voldemort let it slide? Most likely he wouldn’t say anything about it, leaving Lucius and Narcissa devastated at the loss of their child, denied any justice for his “death.” It would be the cruelest punishment for them; they would never receive any real closure.

Draco wasn’t aware of when he started to cry, but eventually he reached up to touch his face and found that his eyes were incredibly wet. He wiped at them in some frustration. Now wasn’t the time to get overly-emotional--now was the time to grow up a little, and prepare himself for the harsh realities that were ahead of them, to mentally prepare for the challenges that would no doubt arise during the Horcrux hunt. The sooner he got to thinking about where Voldemort could have hidden them--and that wasn’t going to be easy--the better.

A sound suddenly caught his attention, and Draco turned his head to find a little grass snake poking its head out from a taller patch of grass to watch him. It didn’t seem intent on causing him harm--they were non-venomous anyway, so he doubted it could really do anything--but the sight of it made him blink and sit up. “What are you doing here?” he blurted out, further startled when his own voice emerged as a hissing sound, instead of English.

“I could taste your distress,” the little snake replied. “I’ve not met a human who could speak the serpent tongue before.”

“Oh, well… I’ve only very recently come into the ability.” So this was what it was like, actively speaking Parseltongue, instead of just quietly eavesdropping in on it. How strange. “You do know this place has humans, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, I’m well-aware.” The little creature flicked its tongue out in amusement. “My mate and I live near the swamp that is close by. Often we come here to catch the rats and other vermin that threaten the chickens. The people don’t bother us, and we don’t bother them.”

That would make sense. The Weasleys seemed to be an uncommonly kind bunch. “So you’re not in any danger. That’s good.”

“Yes.” The snake slithered closer then, and Draco held his hand out, allowing it to coil around his arm in a strong grip, those eyes staring unblinkingly into his own. “Now what troubles you so? You were crying.”

“There’s a war going on,” Draco replied, his voice subdued. “And I don’t know what to do. I have such a big role in trying to stop it, in trying to defeat this evil man...and I don’t know where to start or how to even begin accomplishing my goal.”

“That does sound troubling.” The snake swayed its head a bit as if in thought. “Perhaps we snakes can help. We tend to keep in contact with many, to keep to our own you know. And we’re very well-adept at being familiars for the magical folk. We sense magic, that’s why my mate and I have made this area our home. It’s safer here.”

Draco’s eyes widened a little. “Truly?”

“Oh yes. But snakes eventually fell out of fashion as familiars for many, to be replaced by cats and owls.” There was a slightly annoyed hiss there, and Draco smiled a little. “But for the few who do keep us, we are loyal companions. If there is a war, then we can help you.”

“Alright.” Draco had to think about it for a second, before he decided that he had nothing to lose. “I’m going to be looking for objects, ones heavily encased with very Dark magic. There are four of them, and they could be hidden anywhere--I assume they’re all in the country, but I don’t know for certain. I also will need to be on the lookout for unsavory characters, ones who mean to cause harm, to me and my friends.”

“Then we shall be your eyes and ears,” the snake promised graciously. “I will send word out to my friends, and they in turn will pass the message to theirs. Wherever you are, if we find what you’re looking for, we will tell you.”

“Thank you.” Draco smiled a little. “You know, I’ve never actually spoken to a snake before. You’re quite good for conversation.”

“We hear and see many things,” the snake replied, its mouth stretching into a semblance of a smile. “I’m sure we have many tales to delight the serpent speakers. For now though, I must return home. The sooner we get the word out, the better.”

“Oh, yes--thank you.” Draco let his arm down, and the snake uncoiled itself to slither away. For the first time in days, Draco felt some of that tightness in his chest loosen a bit itself. He hadn’t known exactly what good having Parseltongue would do, if he wasn't in the Manor anymore to spy on Voldemort and Nagini; but now, perhaps there was a much better use for it.

Draco made his way back to the house, entering the kitchen and smiling a little when he saw that Molly’s sewing table was now covered in neat stacks of newly-tailored clothing for him. Glancing down at what he was currently wearing, he sighed when he noticed that he’d managed to get grass stains on the jeans and shirt from his rest in the garden. 

Drawing his wand, Draco carefully siphoned the green smudges out of the denim and cotton, glad that he was able to handle that small act of cleaning on his own now. Being free from the Trace was going to be an enormous blessing.

“Wait a moment--has your birthday passed?” Draco looked up, finding Molly looking at him in surprise as she entered the kitchen. “Draco, dear, are you already seventeen?”

“Oh--uh, yes, I am,” he replied, putting his wand away and removing his boots, placing them among the myriad of other shoe pairs arranged near the door. “Back on the fifth.”

“Well, goodness’ sake--we can’t just let that pass by un-celebrated!” Molly scolded fondly, putting down the basket of vegetables she’d been carrying and crossing to hug him. “No, not a word of protest--we’re going to make sure that we do something. It’ll just be the family, but that’s more than enough for merriment...the funeral is tomorrow, but after that, I’ll pull together something simple and lovely.”

Draco stared at her, stunned at how offended she genuinely seemed over the notion of him not getting a seventeenth birthday party. “Mrs. Weasley, that’s not--I mean, you really don’t need to, it’s not important given everything that’s--”

“Hush. We’re going to do this, you cannot let such an important date go without _some_ thing being done to mark the milestone.” She patted his cheek, looking at him with such intense motherly fondness that it made Draco’s throat close slightly. “You just leave it to me, my dear.”

As twilight settled over the Burrow, and the stars began to appear, everyone made their way back inside for the evening meal. Fred and George had taken Ron up on his invitation, and the Weasley boys were in high spirits after some amiable Quidditch play. Once they had finished up tidying after the meal, they all made their way out into the garden. Tea and hot buttered rum were passed around, the pleasant June evening warm enough to enjoy sitting together outside without sweaters.

In the far distance across the valley, from behind the hills that provided a sense of shelter and coziness without feeling claustrophobic, beautiful music could suddenly be heard. It rose and fell, as if the source was in motion, and gradually faded farther away towards the west. Staring at the darkening ridge of the hill range, Draco realized that he knew what it was, though he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard it before: phoenix song.

And in an instant he knew, without even being sure of how the thought had occurred to him, that it was Fawkes. As the haunting birdsong faded into the remains of the sunset, Draco closed his eyes. He knew, as if it had been predetermined and declared aloud; just as his late master was now gone forever, the phoenix had left Hogwarts for good.


	27. The Life I Held So Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'You’re family now,' Ron told him, grinning as Draco flushed a little at the words."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all bless Hardy for making these chapters happen, Minx turns into a sappy mess whenever Draco gets emotional.

There was a somber air over the Burrow the following morning. They all gathered to eat a simple breakfast together, and then everyone besides Draco--and Sirius, who had come to stay with him while the others were gone--dressed and prepared to go to Hogwarts for the funeral. Sirius had voiced the wish to attend the proceedings as Padfoot, but the others’ worry for his safety had dissuaded him from arguing too much.

Draco wished his cousin hadn’t decided to come. He didn’t need a babysitter, obviously, and he didn’t entirely want company that day. And of course, he wasn’t exactly planning to stay at the Burrow as ordered for the entire day, anyway.

As the Weasleys and Hermione headed off to take a Portkey to the castle, he watched them from the garden. Coming to his side, Sirius clapped a gentle hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get our time to say our goodbyes and pay respects to Dumbledore, eventually. For now, it’s just...”

“The cost of war,” Draco muttered. “I know.”

He weighed multiple possible ideas for how to sneak off without catching Sirius’ attention, but in the end, Draco realized that he simply had to be the Slytherin that he was.

Molly kept what Draco supposed could be called a medicine cabinet in one of the closets, a basic stock of simple health-oriented potions that had a good shelf-life and could treat minor ailments, from colds to sleeplessness to aching stomachs. From there Draco took a small vial of Sleeping Draught; and though he felt like a complete and utter arsehole for it, he very carefully prepared some tea for himself and Sirius, choosing one strong enough that the hint of bitterness from the potion wouldn’t come through flavor-wise.

The dose was enough to ensure that Draco would have the time he needed. He sat quietly in the garden alongside his cousin as they drank, staring at the clouds drifting overhead and wondering if Sirius would wake up recognizing the difference between a natural doze-off, and what was happening to him now.

It did not take long for the older man to wind up slumped back in his padded garden chair, snoring softly, and Draco smiled faintly as he put Sirius’ coat over him--he certainly didn’t want to make his cousin catch a cold from napping in the open air--then went to grab the Invisibility Cloak before making his way past the Burrow’s protective boundaries.

As soon as he felt the enchantments fall behind him, Draco drew a deep breath and Dispparated, landing at the edge of Hogsmeade. He covered himself in the Cloak, and then proceeded up to Hogwarts on foot.

From the hillside near Hagrid’s hut, Draco watched the funeral where it was taking place next to the Black Lake. There was a sizeable crowd gathered, including the staff, students--both current and older--and then many older faces who Draco didn’t always recognize. He supposed that Dumbledore had made a deep impact on thousands of lives, though; it would only make sense for there to be many who wanted to see the great wizard off.

Draco easily spotted his own friends among the attendees--he’d know Hermione in a crowd even if he was half-blind. The Weasleys were impossible to miss, with their flaming red hair, and Luna was a vibrant sunflower as she joined them, with Neville close behind. There were several DA members, in fact, and Draco felt affection and pride swell in his heart as he watched them all move to sit together.

Theo and Pansy were there, as well, and Draco watched in surprise as Pansy did not appear to hesitate for even a heartbeat before moving to sit on Ron’s other side from Hermione. From the way they leaned into one another for more of the service, Draco could tell that they were even holding hands unabashedly.

The warmth of the sun was soothing on Draco’s face through the Cloak as he watched Professor McGonagall call for silence, standing before the hundreds of chairs that had been set out in neat rows. An aisle ran down the center; there was a marble table standing at the front, all the chairs facing it. It was an absolutely beautiful summer’s day. 

Draco also spotted several members of the Order of the Phoenix in attendance--Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks--her hair miraculously returned to vividest pink--and Lupin. Once again, the two of them seemed to be holding hands, and Draco smiled faintly, pleased by that faint flicker of happiness in the midst of all this sorrow.

Arthur and Molly were sitting with the rest of their children. Even Bill had made his way out, supported by Fleur, and followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragonskin. Draco recognized Madame Maxime from Beauxbatons Academy, who took up two-and-a-half chairs on her own; Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron; the hairy bass player from the wizarding group the Weird Sisters; Madam Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley, and some people whom Draco merely knew by sight, such as the barman of the Hog’s Head and the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts were there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they moved, shimmering insubstantially in the gleaming air. 

Cornelius Fudge made his way along the aisle towards the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual. Rita Skeeter was seated right up close; to Draco’s disgust he saw that she had a notebook clutched in her red-taloned hand. Even Delores Umbridge was there, an unconvincing expression of grief stretched across her toad-like face and a stupid little black bow in her hair. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a sentinel near the water’s edge, she gave a start and scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away, and Draco smirked despite his anger.

The staff were seated last. Draco could see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row beside Professor McGonagall; with an unpleasant twist of his stomach, Draco wondered whether Scrimgeour or any of these important government people were actually sorry that Dumbledore was dead.

But then music began to play--strange, otherworldly music, and Draco forgot his dislike of the Ministry as he looked around for the source of it. He was not the only one: many heads were turning, searching, a little alarmed. 

The surface of the Black Lake rippled and then broke, and the music grew louder and clearer; a chorus of merpeople singing in their strange language, their pallid faces seeming to shift as they peeked above the water just enough to be seen, their purplish hair flowing all around them.

Their music made the hair on Draco’s neck stand up, and yet it was far from unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of loss and of despair. As he looked down into the wild faces of the singing merpeople, Draco had the feeling that they, at least, were truly sorry for Dumbledore’s passing. 

Movement drew his eyes away from the lake-dwellers; Hagrid was walking slowly up the aisle between the chairs. Even from Draco’s distance it was clear that Hagrid was crying silently, his face gleaming with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars, was what Draco knew must be Dumbledore’s body.

A little tufty-haired man in plain black robes got to his feet and stood in front of the marble table where Hagrid tenderly placed the Headmaster’s form. Draco could not always hear what he was saying--odd words floated back to him over the distance. “Nobility of spirit”...“intellectual contribution”...“greatness of heart”...it did not mean very much. It had little to do with Dumbledore as Draco had known him. 

He suddenly remembered Dumbledore’s idea of a few words: “nitwit”, “oddment”, “blubber” and “tweak”, and again, he had to suppress a grin. The funeral that he was observing was lovely, but it was not properly fitting to the man it was intended to be honoring.

The little wizard in black had stopped speaking at last and resumed his seat. Draco waited for somebody else to get to their feet; he expected speeches, probably from the Minister, but nobody moved. 

Then several people screamed. Bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore’s body and the table upon which it lay: higher and higher they rose, obscuring the man completely. White smoke spiraled into the air and made strange shapes; Draco thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that he saw a phoenix fly joyfully into the blue, but the next second the fire had vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore’s body and the table on which he had rested. 

There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of arrows abruptly soared through the air, but they fell far short of the crowd. It was, Draco knew, the centaurs’ tribute: he saw them turn tail and disappear back into the cool trees as soon as the arrows had come down. Likewise, the merpeople sank slowly back into the green water and were lost from view. 

Once the ceremony itself was over, it appeared to be more of a casual reception. The crowd milled about, talking and strolling by the lakeside; small tables materialized and house elves popped in and out of view, serving hors d'oeuvres and drinks and tidying plates and glasses away as soon as they were empty again.

From his vantage point, Draco saw Hermione very carefully detach herself from their friend group, slipping away unnoticed. She made her way across the ground toward Hagrid’s with appropriate care and discretion, and Draco smiled, moving into the shadows of the trees to wait until she eventually reached him.

He hung the Cloak over a tree branch within easy reach, turning back as he heard her footsteps crunching over the fallen twigs and mulch behind Hagrid’s hut.

Draco opened his arms at once, welcoming her into his embrace. She all but collapsed against his chest, her eyes closing and the tension melting out of her body as he supposed her, one arm around her waist and the other raised to stroke his fingers tenderly through her hair. “We’ll be alright,” he whispered against the dark curls. “I promise.” Hermione didn’t reply, simply nodding wordlessly, but he felt some of the rigidity leave her shoulders.

Drawing back after a long pause, Draco took both of her hands in his, and she squeezed his fingers in wordless assurance that she was okay. Draco drew a deep breath.

“I did come to see the funeral, of course,” he began. “But I also need to ask for your help. I’ve got...a rather odd favor I need, which I will explain later.” Hermione raised her eyebrows, nodding; by now, Draco knew that she trusted him enough to accept something that vague and not press for more information before he was ready.

Reaching out, Draco grabbed a random twig from the nearest low-hanging tree branch. “Can you please transfigure this for me? I trust your spellwork for accuracy more than mine, in this instance...because I need you to make it into a replica of Harry’s glasses.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Harry’s--what? Why?” she asked, clearly bewildered.

“I promise to explain once I know it’s worked out,” Draco reiterated. Hermione searched his face, then finally sighed heavily, accepting this--albeit very odd--request. Drawing her wand, she did the Charm with her brow furrowed in concentration, and Draco watched the small stick of wood quiver and change form, melting and darkening until it had formed a pair of round, black-framed glasses that made a pang strike his heart at their familiarity.

Draco hadn’t realized until that second that for all the times he’d been back at Malfoy Manor since this all began, he had never let his eyes stray back to the drawing room mantle where Harry’s glasses--his body--rested at the base of the stolen Triwizard Tournament trophy. Seeing a pair again, resting in his own palm, made his stomach clench unhappily.

“Thank you,” Draco murmured, pocketing them with enormous care.

Hermione inhaled, her voice trembling and soft when she managed to speak. “I...I miss Harry so much--more than ever,” she admitted in a whisper, her gaze dropping sheepishly.

Draco smiled sadly, lifting her hands to press his lips against the backs of them. “I wish I could have known him better,” he replied softly. “The more I learn from the people who knew and loved him, the more I know I’d have enjoyed his company.”

The distant soft rumble of voices made Draco glance around, sighing quietly. “I can’t stay much longer,” he said. “Can’t be seen around here alive, and you should get back to the others.” Looking at Hermione again, Draco’s expression softened. “I’ll see you back at the Burrow tonight. We can...work on our dancing. In preparation for Bill and Fleur’s wedding.”

Hermione nodded, a giggle escaping her as she smiled despite the tears glittering in her eyes. Draco couldn’t stop himself, not when he didn’t have to. He kissed her deeply, peace filling his chest as she immediately wound her arms around his neck to draw him closer, returning the kiss with the same gentle ferocity that she seemed to exude in everything that she did. 

If he hadn’t known that he needed to leave, Draco might have been concerned about this moment getting mildly out of hand.

It was Hermione who broke away, a lovely little flush on her cheeks and her eyes wide and dark. Draco wanted to preserve the sight of her like this forever--or to make sure that he reduced her to looking at him this same way, every single day for the rest of his life. 

“Be safe,” Hermione whispered firmly, and Draco nodded as he tugged the Cloak back down from its branch. With one last tender smile at her, he covered himself and turned to slip away, leaving the Hogwarts grounds in order to Apparate once more.

He did not return immediately back to the Burrow; there was one more important stop to make.

When his feet hit the ground, Draco double-checked that the Cloak was concealing him completely before drawing a deep breath, and walking up the lane to the front door of Malfoy Manor. He slipped into the house, instantly relieved when no alarms were triggered. 

Of course, to be fair, they believed that he was a martyr to their cause, a fallen supporter of the Dark Lord. Why ward the house against someone you presumed to be dead?

The house was quiet and cold, as it had come to always be, in the last few years. Draco could hear people moving around on the floors overhead; but he ignored those, padding forward through the first level. Unless anyone began descending the stairs, Draco felt no concern about anyone that was here now.

Only one thing slowed him down en route to his goal. Draco stopped as he passed the kitchen doorway, hearing soft sniffling. Glancing around the corner, Draco sucked in a breath when he saw that his mother was at the tiny breakfast nook table, crying quietly into her tea. His heart clenched in grief as he watched his mother mourning him, alone and unable to voice her pain louder than in muffled sobs, hiding away from the other occupants of her home. 

But perhaps not; hearing heavy footsteps, he quickly drew himself in smaller as the door opened across the way, revealing his father. Lucius looked...far older, and far more sickly than the last time Draco had seen him.

“Narcissa.” Lucius sounded thin and brittle. “Please…”

Narcissa’s crying hitched for a moment. “Leave me be. The least you could do is leave me be Lucius, after all this…”

“You know this wasn’t what I wanted--”

Narcissa stood up so quickly that the table shook, and she looked to Lucius with such an enraged expression that Draco’s eyes widened as he watched the scene. He had never seen his mother so furious before, and now all of that was being aimed at his father, like she wanted nothing more than to strike out at him. “What you wanted? What  _ you  _ wanted? What about what  _ I _ wanted? I wanted us to live quietly, I wanted to live safely--you promised me after the first time, you  _ swore  _ to me, never again, and now Draco--” Her voice broke, tears streaming down her face, and when Lucius reached for her, she beat her fists against his chest to keep him at bay. “My son is dead! My baby, my only child…!"

Draco had to cover his mouth as he watched the scene unfold. Every piece of himself wanted to reveal he was alive, to let his mother hold him tight, if only so that he could comfort her. 

But he knew that it was too dangerous, though his own heart felt like it was clenched in pain, tears welling in his own eyes as if he could feel her grief radiating through his own body.

It was only then that Draco realized, shocked, that Lucius’ eyes were filled with tears as well, and he was able to finally pull Narcissa into his arms, holding her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry. I’d take his place if I could, you know that. I failed you both. It never should have gotten this far, he never should have gotten involved…”

Narcissa said nothing, but she buried her face into her husbands shoulder, clinging to his form as her body shook with renewed sobs.

Unable to bear watching any more, knowing he would shatter if he did so, Draco quietly slipped away from the kitchen, entering the primary drawing room, and crossing to that unbearable fireplace. 

After wiping his eyes, and certain that he didn’t hear anyone close by, Draco reached up. Which gentle fingers he took Harry’s glasses--his transfigured body--down from the mantle, with the utmost care and caution in his movements. Taking out the replacements that Hermione had made for him, Draco placed them precisely where the real ones had been. 

With absolute reverence, Draco pocketed Harry himself, then turned to make his way on silent feet back to the front door of the house. Only on the threshold did Draco pause, hand on the door handle; he looked back, glancing around the familiar foyer one final time as he prepared to leave it behind for good.

There were no tears. His sense of empathy had made him tear up when he saw Narcissa crying, and he had almost felt the impulse to step forward and comfort her. But in leaving Malfoy Manor, there was no regret, no sadness or anger...nor was there any traces of happiness left. Only a bittersweet acceptance that this was not "home" for him anymore, and it likely never would be again. 

Leaving it was the easiest thing that Draco thought he had ever done so far.

* * *  


Draco had assumed that Molly would forget her remark about throwing him a birthday celebration after the funeral--or, if not forget, then she would at least wait a while to do it. She was too kind-hearted a human not to follow through on her promise, but he was fairly certain that there was too much going on for even a mother with her depth of love to toss together a party.

Once more, it seemed he had drastically underestimated the degree to which the wonderful people now in his life had adopted him as their own.

It was a week or so after the funeral, which allowed him to mostly stop fretting that she was going to strain herself to get it done. Draco woke shortly after the sunrise, feeling better-rested by the day, and then he paused, confused. There was a weight on his feet. Pushing up onto his elbows, Draco snorted a laugh when he spotted the tidy little stack of beautifully-wrapped birthday gifts piled over his legs.

“Yeah, she didn’t forget,” Ron said, grinning as he entered the bedroom from brushing his teeth. “We’re doing a lovely family-plus luncheon. You’re banned from the kitchen, too, so you’ll have to use the back garden door to leave the house.”

“Why am I banned?” Draco asked, chuckling as he sat up to curl his legs beneath himself, and reached for his first gift. “I already know she’s a spectacular cook. And if she’s going to make favorite foods, or something, I obviously know what mine are, too.”

“Well, the certified Molly Weasley birthday-extravaganza isn’t about the food--it’s the cake,” Ron said, laughing at the look on Draco’s face. “Yep. Just accept it, mate. Go on, that one’s from me.”

It was a small, portable Sneakoscope, and Draco grinned at the redhead, pleased. “Thanks, Ron. I’ll make sure Hermione packs it.” He had absolutely no idea how she was managing her packing list, considering the heaps of books he had spotted spread around hers and Ginny’s room the last few days; but she was adamant that she had it in hand, and Draco trusted her.

Among the other packages, he found an enchanted razor from Arthur, dragon-hide gloves from Ginny with niffler-fur lining--strong, but warm, they would be excellent when traveling--and a box of the latest Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred and George.

He dressed and brushed his teeth, then followed Ron downstairs, letting Ginny shoo him away from the kitchen doorway with a wry grin. Molly’s voice drifted from behind her, calling a fond apology to him as Hermione left the breakfast table, and joined him and Ron heading out into the backyard.

Ron excused himself almost at once. “Stay in the back, or upstairs,” he advised Draco, chuckling at the blonde’s huff of bemusement. “I’m helping Dad do some setup while Mum does the food prep. Hermione, keep him busy.”

She gave the ginger a playful salute, laughing at the look Draco shot her. “That, I can do!”

When Ron disappeared around the front of the house, she smirked. “Happily, too. Come on, let’s find a quiet spot.” She started to turn, but Draco caught her hand, tugging--she followed him willingly, a soft smile on her lips--and he led her to where he had sought solitude on his first day at the Burrow, where he had spoken to the little garden snake.

The tiny serpent was nowhere in sight, but the grassy little alcove in the hedges was still perfect. Slipping into the cozy space, Draco sank down into the grass, and Hermione joined him, crossing her legs underneath herself. “I have something for you,” she said, then paused as Draco promptly wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Merlin, for your  _ birthday _ , you idiot,” Hermione giggled. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Malfoy.”

From her pocket she drew a small pendant hanging from a chain, and handed it to him. It was a small, simple silver oval with a locket clasp and a rune etched into the front of the metal. Draco held it into the sunlight, examining it curiously.

Hermione’s voice was quiet. “I realized something, about the work we’re about to do. Until the war is over, we can’t guarantee that the Cloak will always be within easy reach, or enough to protect you from detection by the wrong people. Right here and now, sure, we’re safe at the Burrow--but once we go...” She sighed. “We need security measures to keep you hidden from the Death Eaters for as long as possible. So I started working on this. I only just perfected it--just in time to make it a birthday gift, which was nice.”

Draco opened the locket, intrigued. Inside, it looked as if a tiny bubble of perfectly clear, frozen water was contained in one half of the metal shell. He could see strands of hair inside of the droplet; one was long and dark brown, the other short and yellow, and there were more runes etched into the metal underneath the clear substance.

“It’s our hair, one of each,” Hermione explained. “Yours, as the object of the glamour charm that the pendant is enchanted with, and mine as the creator of the charm. Whenever you need to be disguised, you just close your hand around it and say the incantation: ‘Strenuus obstrepat.’ And then the removal spell is ‘Finis obstrepat.’” She sat back, smiling. “It doesn’t change your actual physiology at all, like being an animagus or a metamorphmagus does. But it will alter your external appearance, to everyone. Including me and Ron.”

Draco had to admit, he was stunned. He supposed this was how the DA members had felt when Hermione had produced her clever Protean Charm-bearing coins; she was far cleverer and more skilled than he had even realized. “How on earth did you work this out? Glamour charms--I mean, that’s seventh year stuff and only for the truly advanced student.” He smirked. “Which, of course, you are.”

Hermione merely smiled, her cheeks pink. “Seems to be my life calling,” she teased. “Finding magical tips and tricks that will save everyone else’s arses. And if we’re going to do what we’re planning on--what we have to do--then you need the safety net. The longer we can go without Voldemort or any of his people knowing that you’re still alive--and acting against them--the better.”

“Agreed.” Draco carefully eased the chain over his neck, and tucked the pendant beneath his shirt. Taking her hand, he leaned forward until their foreheads pressed together. “Thank you.” The small smile she offered in return made his heart feel warm, and Draco tilted his head, dipping forward to give her a gentle kiss. “I’d be lost without you.”

They spent a good while tucked out of sight together, tucked away and sheltered by the hedges.

The ban on accessing the kitchen or the front garden was lifted as the afternoon drifted on. The summer weather was pleasantly warm and breezy, the sun not too bright, and eventually Ginny appeared at the back door to holler for them. 

“You’re allowed inside again,” she told Draco, grinning as he rolled his eyes at her. “Not out front just yet.” Her eyes dropped, catching their interlocked hands before Hermione let go with a blush, but Ginny just chuckled. “You know I knew,” she told the older girl, who smiled sheepishly. “Kinda hard not to notice the way he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“I don’t--do I really?” Draco asked, flushing a little, himself. “I mean, I don’t mind, but I’d prefer not being  _ that _ bloody obvious.”

“No, it’s just because I know what to look for,” Ginny replied, laughing. “Since I assume it’s what you’re worried about--Ron’s clueless, don’t fret.” She nodded knowingly at the relief that crossed his face. “But I’d advise that the revelation come, y’know, from you guys, and not from him walking in on you snogging or something.”

“Ahem, anyway--party planning?” Hermione interrupted, blushing darker. “Merlin, we are so not discussing our snogging habits...”

Draco caught her hand, grinning as he lifted it to kiss her palm. “Sorry.” They followed Ginny inside, finding a tray of light sandwiches and tea waiting for them as a midday snack to tide them over until supper. Ron joined them, a little sweaty from whatever he had been helping Arthur prepare, but he was surprisingly competent at not caving to Draco’s efforts to find out just what the family was putting together for him.

It was when the fireflies were beginning to dart about, their soft glows flickering in and out of view, that Molly finally came to invite them all out front. As the teenagers crossed through the kitchen and out the front door, Draco’s eyes widened, his breath catching a little.

They had erected a simple sort of canopy, lined with twinkling little fairy lights, and placed it over the garden table. The twins were there, as well as Sirius and Remus and Tonks, and Bill and Fleur had come; Draco allowed himself to be hugged by each as they offered him birthday greetings, and he was smiling with genuine joy by the time he was ushered into his chair, gazing along the table at, as he had expected, an array of all the foods he’d ever acknowledged liking best.

“This is far too generous,” he told Molly firmly, but she merely hushed him and began serving out the food. “I can’t believe you all came out just for this.”

“‘This’ is food and family time--we do that plenty,” Bill told him, smiling gently. In the soft, warm light of the lanterns and fairy baubles, Draco could hardly even tell that the older man was scarred up from his encounter with Greyback during the fight at Hogwarts. “We’re here for you, mate. Seventeen is special, and no matter what’s going on in the world, it deserves to be celebrated.”

“‘Sides, you’re family now,” Ron told him, grinning as Draco flushed a little at the words. He was not used to associating  _ family _ with something as boisterous and colorful and  _ lively _ as the Weasleys. Their home, their personalities, and their seemingly infinite kindness despite poverty and struggles...Draco felt almost overwhelmed by it all.

“Actually,” Arthur remarked, smirking a little into his glass of whiskey. “You’ve always been family.” When the teenagers looked at him uncomprehendingly, Arthur chuckled. “I suppose I’ve never mentioned it, but your grandmother Cedrella’s maiden name was Black.” Draco started, staring at him in disbelief, and Sirius choked on his own drink. 

At the others’ confused looks, Arthur clarified. “If I recall correctly, she was a cousin of Sirius’ grandfather on his mother’s side. Married my father, Septimus, and--”

“Got struck from the tree of the ‘noble and most ancient house of Black,’” Sirius finished, clearing his airway and rolling his eyes. “Merlin’s balls, that’s just typical. And of course we wouldn’t know it,” he added wryly to Draco. “Those strikes are just charred black holes in the tapestry, now. No name, no image, and certainly no talking about it.”

Draco had the fleeting thought that he was damned grateful that Hermione was in no way blood-related to the Weasleys, though she was certainly family to them, because he had been raised with the comforting reassurance that the Malfoys did  _ not _ partake in their ancestral tendencies towards ignoring incest for the sake of bloodline preservation.

“Well,” Ron said. “Never thought I’d be happy to know I’m related to a Malfoy.” He grinned, giving Draco’s shoulder a nudge. “But you’re not so bad.”

Tonks appeared to be attempting some mental calculation. “And it’s the same for me, then, right, it’s....”

“Indeed,” Arthur confirmed. “Cedrella was first cousin to your grandmother Dorea, too. You’re related to us the same way that Sirius is--or, well, close enough, your mum is his first cousin. You and Draco are firsts, too.”

“Headache-inducing,” Draco muttered, rubbing his forehead as everyone laughed in agreement.

Beneath the table, Hermione’s hand landed on his knee. Draco dropped his own to cover hers, and her fingers turned over to twine through his and give a gentle, comforting squeeze. 

_ It’s okay _ .

After the food had been demolished--and Draco had to praise Molly extensively, because she had taken dishes that he already loved, and had done true magic with them. Everything tasted perfect, and rich with the love that he knew had gone into preparing it all--they sat for a while in companionable laughter and conversation, drinking butterbeer and fire whiskey as their stomachs settled.

Eventually, though, Molly went inside, and Draco hid his face in amused embarrassment as everyone turned, grinning, to begin singing the insufferable birthday song. As they concluded, Molly returned, a platter bearing the cake hovering before her before it drifted down to settle in front of Draco’s amazed eyes.

If not for the candles sparkling merrily all over it, he might have actually thought it was a real, live emerald-green serpent, coiled neatly with its head raised to face him, eyes glittering with frosting the color of Slytherin House’s token silver. Really, Draco didn’t know how people could automatically think snakes looked evil or cruel; even in cake form, he thought it had a gentle expression.

“Perhaps a bit on-the-nose,” Molly said apologetically. “But I thought--”

“It’s perfect--and it’s so beautiful,” Draco cut her off, grinning as he stood to hug her. The display of affection clearly calmed her, and she embraced him back tightly before nudging him to sit back down. “Thank you.”

As Molly began to cut and service the beautiful dessert, Ron spoke quietly enough that only Draco and Hermione heard him. “I know it’s for Slytherin, but...also kind of hilarious if you think about it. You, specifically, I mean. Snakes are turning out to be a fitting symbol, eh?”

Draco coughed on a laugh, and Hermione grinned. “Didn’t even think of that. But yeah, I guess I’m living up to my House identity more and more,” he said dryly. “Remind me to tell you about the very friendly garden snakes that live in the swamp nearby...”

It was past sundown when the party finally began to wind down, and Draco felt well-fed, drowsy, and thoroughly loved. Eventually, those who weren’t sleeping at the Burrow said their goodbyes, and Draco actually enjoyed being enveloped in hugs from both of his cousins, Remus, and Bill and Fleur.

In the quiet afterwards, sitting in the garden with nightcaps and soft music drifting out from the old record player in the den, Draco was half-asleep when there was a rush of wings to announce an owl’s arrival. 

Spotting the bird, Draco sat up at once, immediately alert again; it was Orion. His beloved companion landed neatly on the armrest of Draco’s chair, hooting softly and happily welcoming gentle head scratches from his young master. There was a tiny parcel bound to his leg, which he allowed Draco to remove before hopping up to roost on the back of the chair, remaining close to Draco as Ginny went to fetch him some owl treats.

Opening the package, Draco found a small box and a note. He unfolded the parchment to find Severus’ familiar handwriting, and Draco swallowed as he read his godfather’s words. 

_ Draco _ ,

_ I was told that this evening your birthday is being celebrated. Please convey my gratitude to the Weasleys for giving you that small amount of normalcy in the midst of all this chaos. _

_ The gift you’ll find in the box...it isn’t the authentic piece, unfortunately, because there’s really no feasible way for me to ask for it without causing your mother distress. However, I’ve created a perfect replica, because I felt that you need something of your family to keep with you until you can reunite with them. _

_ Happy birthday, Draco. _

_ Severus _

Draco tucked the letter into his shirt pocket for safekeeping, smiling to himself as he opened the little box. He’d had a suspicion based on the note--and it was confirmed when he slipped the lid off, revealing a beautiful, clearly antique silver pocket watch. The curved surface of the lid was etched with tiny marks and lines that Draco knew well; they were charmed to glow down on him from the ceiling of his bedroom, as well, forming the shape of the  _ Draco _ constellation. 

Undoing the clasp, Draco opened the watch and smiled. On the left was a petite model of the solar system, miniscule and enchanted to portray the planets as they were at that moment, miles and miles above them in the night sky. And in the left frame...Draco’s heart squeezed with a surge of emotion, both melancholy and joyful. The tiny moving portrait was of himself and his parents, a few years old, but recent enough that it felt like seeing them as they were. 

It was certainly a glimpse of far happier times, at any rate, and Draco was indescribably grateful to Severus for this token.

Looking up, he found the others all watching him with soft smiles. Draco chuckled, showing them the watch and passing along Severus’ gratitude to them for celebrating his birthday.

“I’m so glad he sent that,” Molly said warmly, smiling as she began gathering their empty glasses to be sent inside. “It’s proper tradition, giving a wizard a pocket watch when he comes of age, whether it’s an heirloom or new. I was regretting that we couldn’t do that for you.”

“This is perfect,” Draco confirmed, slipping the watch into his pocket. “It’s a replica of the one that I know my parents had--have--for me, so Severus did brilliantly.” He glanced at Hermione, smirking as she stifled a yawn. “And now, I have been sufficiently and thoroughly celebrated on my birthday. Thank you all so much. But I think it’s bedtime now.”

“Indeed. We’ll clean up the canopy and all that tomorrow,” Arthur agreed, as the group rose. “A very happy seventeenth, my boy.” He clapped Draco on the shoulder, smiling. “We have a little respite, and then, it’s on to wedding planning.” Draco caught Hermione’s eye, and he knew what she was thinking as clearly as if she’d said it out loud.  _ The wedding...and then, on to the hunt for the Horcruxes _ .


	28. Spinning in Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What they were leaving to do had to remain a complete secret; and besides, there was no reason to heap even more strain on Molly’s shoulders as she labored to prepare for her oldest child’s wedding."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small swerve back into some canon-content, but some very delectable fresh additions in here, too. ;)

As July wound down towards August, Bill and Fleur’s wedding became the primary focus. The Burrow was to be cleaned from attic to cellar, the yard tidied more thoroughly than it had been even for Draco’s impromptu little birthday celebration, and accommodations had to be set in place for the extra people who would be staying at the Burrow in the days leading up to the ceremony.

Remus and Tonks were over almost every day, to help out and to discuss Order business, and Sirius joined them as often as he was able to safely come from Grimmauld Place. The Burrow had rather unofficially replaced the London house as the Order’s headquarters, mainly due to convenience, but Sirius was able to remain in his childhood home with Remus as the new Secret-Keeper. They’d simply adjusted the Fidelius Charm to protect the house as Sirius’ home, rather than the meeting place of a dozen Order members.

With the new changes, he also got an opportunity to meet the aunt he never knew: Andromeda, who looked so much like Bellatrix that Draco did a massive double take upon meeting that did not go unnoticed. Her features, though--from the shape of her face, to the color of her eyes and even her hair--was much softer than her elder sister’s, and when she offered a handshake, Draco found that her grip was strong and warm. 

“The resemblance is uncanny, isn’t it?” she asked a bit jokingly.

“I’m very sorry,” Draco said, smiling a bit ruefully. “You just…she’s very unsettling.”

“Yes, I know. She was never quite the nicest person, even when we were young.” Andromeda’s eyes got a little faraway, as if almost lost in memories of long ago. “I daresay, you look so much like Narcissa.”

“Really? I think I look a little too much like Father. So many people have said so, all my life.”

“There is some Lucius, yes, but your eyes, and the way you hold yourself…that’s all her.” She gently touched his face then, looking wistful. “She wrote to me, when you were born. The last letter she ever sent to me. I’m so glad to be meeting you after all this time.”

He couldn’t help but smile back, finding that even if she did look a bit like Bellatrix, her mannerisms were just like Narcissa’s; familiar, and motherly and kind. “I am too. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

As the weeks passed and the wedding drew nearer, Draco tried not to feel any negativity towards the adults around them; but he couldn’t help noticing how diligently Mrs. Weasley worked at keeping the teenagers working on the house cleaning tasks, and usually that meant that they were working separately.

Whether her priority was keeping them from overhearing Order conversations--irritating in itself, since they were full-fledged Members now for all intents and purposes--or from working on their plans together, it wasn’t clear, but it was very frustrating. And Draco couldn’t exactly call her out on it, since he and Ron and Hermione had agreed firmly that the less that was said aloud about their imminent departure, the better.

What they were leaving to do had to remain a complete secret; and besides, there was no reason to heap even more strain on Molly’s shoulders as she labored to prepare for her oldest child’s wedding.

The longest amount of time that they generally spent all together was at mealtimes, with the ever-increasing population of the house all crammed in around the kitchen table. Draco tended to try and snag the chair nearest to the garden door, unsure he could handle the claustrophobic seating without possibly having an anxiety attack at some point. 

Of course, Hermione always managed to squeeze in beside him, and never failed to be his calming influence; if she couldn’t outright take his hand beneath the table, then she would press her leg against his, warm and solid, and Draco could feel his lungs expand each time as he shot her grateful smiles.

At the head of the table, Mrs. Weasley was pouring over her seemingly unending list of jobs that were scrawled all over a very long sheet of parchment, her spectacles precariously close to slipping off of her nose.

“Now, Ron, have you cleaned your room yet?” she asked, barely glancing up to look at her youngest son.

“Why?” Ron demanded, slamming his spoon down and glaring at his mother. “Why does my room have to be cleaned out? Draco and I are fine with it the way it is!” Draco winced, not wanting to be involved in this debate; he was more than happy to do what he could to lessen Molly’s agitation, even if he did wish she wasn’t striving so hard to keep them apart at this crucial junction.

“We are holding your brother’s wedding here in a few days’ time, young man—” 

“And are they getting married in my bedroom?” Ron asked furiously. “No! So why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left—” 

“Don’t use language like that with your mother,” Mr. Weasley cut him off firmly. “And do as you’re told.” 

Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his spoon and attacked the last few mouthfuls of his apple tart. “I can help, some of it’s my mess,” Draco hurried to assure Ron, but Mrs. Weasley cut across him. 

“No, Draco, dear, I’d much rather you helped Arthur muck out the chickens. And Hermione, I’d be ever so grateful if you’d change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they’re arriving at eleven tomorrow morning.”

Draco suppressed the urge to roll his eyes; there she went, right back to keeping the three of them in as different locations around the Burrow as she could. At his side, Hermione voiced agreement, then nudging his knee. Draco glanced her way, seeing the knowing little curl to her lips, and he sighed, knowing she was as bemused as he was by Mrs. Weasley’s unceasing efforts.

As it turned out, however, there was nothing for Draco to do for the chickens. “There’s no need to, er, mention it to Molly,” Mr. Weasley told him rather sheepishly, blocking his access to the coop, “But, er, well, Sirius is unable to use his old motorcycle for the time being, since he’s in hiding--and he reckoned he’ll get a more contemporary model eventually, anyway, so he said I could examine it, and, er, I’m hiding—that’s to say, keeping—it in here.” 

Over his shoulder, Draco spotted a gleam of metal beneath an old blanket, tucked in the corner of the coop, and he smirked, nodding as Arthur relaxed a little at his confirmed discretion. 

“It’s fantastic stuff,” he gushed, and although Draco didn’t particularly care about the structure of a Muggle motorcycle, he listened, if only because Arthur’s enthusiasm was endearing. “There’s an exhaust gas-kin, as I believe it’s called, the most magnificent battery, and it’ll be a great opportunity to find out how brakes work. I’m going to try and put it all back together again when Molly’s not—I mean, when I’ve got the time.” 

“Enjoy,” Draco chuckled, leaving the older man to it and heading back into the house. To his relief, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so Draco slipped upstairs to his and Ron’s bedroom.

“I’m doing it, I’m doing—! Oh, it’s you,” Ron said with relief as Draco entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only change was that Hermione was now sitting in the far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her feet, sorting books, some of which Draco recognized as his own old textbooks, into two enormous piles. 

“Hi, Draco,” she said, smiling up at him fondly as he moved to sit down on his camp bed. 

“And how did you manage to get away?” he asked teasingly, toeing off his boots and nudging the nearest stack of books to his feet. They appeared to be the combined collection of his and Hermione’s old Arithmancy and Ancient Runes texts.

“Oh, Mrs. Weasley forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets yesterday,” Hermione replied, sounding rather distracted. She threw _Numerology and Grammatica_ onto one pile, and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ onto the other. 

Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs. Weasley shouting from four floors below. 

“Ginny’s probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring,” Ron grumbled, eyeing the bedroom door warily as if expecting his mother to storm in at any second, even though they could clearly hear that she was nearest to the back garden door. It sounded as if she was calling out to Arthur. “I dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding.” 

“Fleur’s little sister is a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she’s too young to come on her own,” Hermione explained vaguely, seemingly indecisive over _Break with a Banshee._ Draco pressed his lips together, choosing not to tease her for even considering one of Gilderoy Lockhart’s worthless books as necessary to their upcoming journey.

“Well, guests aren’t going to help Mum’s stress levels,” Ron said sulkily. 

“What we really need to decide,” Hermione mused, tossing _Defensive Magical Theory_ into the bin without a second glance and then picking up _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_ , “Is where we’re going after we leave here. We really haven’t any notion of where the rest of them are...but based on everything you’ve said so far, Draco, it only makes sense that they’re in locations of importance to Riddle...so if we can determine a list of that, then we can prioritize which one to start at.”

Draco nodded agreement as Ron slumped back against the wall behind his bed. “This R.A.B. person,” he said. “You know, the one who stole the real locket? He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn’t he? Well, what if he did manage to?” Ron suggested. “It’d be one less for us to do!” 

“Yes, but we’re still going to have to try and trace the real locket, aren’t we?” Hermione pointed out. “To make sure that it _was_ destroyed. We don’t even have a notion of who R.A.B. was, so I’d say we can’t just hope it’s alright to trust his or her word that they handled the locket.” 

“Yeah, I s’pose,” Ron conceded, sighing. “And then once we do find it, or any of them...how do you destroy a Horcrux?” 

“Well,” Hermione said slowly, “I’ve been researching that.” 

“How?” Draco asked, curious and impressed. “I didn’t think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library--you checked there before I got Slughorn’s memory, didn’t you?” 

“Yes--and no, there weren’t,” Hermione said, her face now rather pink. It was the shade of a blush that Draco found adorable, because she clearly thought she was confessing something terrible, and it was going to be brilliant. “Dumbledore removed them all, but he—he didn’t destroy them.” 

Ron sat up straight, wide-eyed. “How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?” His tone held the same fond approval that Draco knew was visible in his face, yet Hermione still looked ashamed.

“It—it wasn’t stealing!” she said quickly, looking between the two boys with a kind of desperation. “They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn’t want anyone to get at them, I’m sure he would have made it much harder to—” 

“Get to the point, ‘Mione, clearly we don’t disapprove,” Ron cut her off, and Draco nodded affirmation. Finally she looked slightly mollified.

“Well...it was easy,” Hermione said in a small voice. “I just did a Summoning Charm. You know—Accio. And—they zoomed out of Dumbledore’s study window right into the girls’ dormitory.” 

“When did you do this?” Draco asked, regarding Hermione with a mixture of admiration and incredulity. It was pure cleverness, of course it was, but he was astonished that she hadn’t shared this information with them until now.

“Just after his—Dumbledore’s—funeral,” Hermione admitted, in an even smaller voice. “Right after we agreed we’d leave school and go and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my things it—it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be...and I was alone in there...so I tried...and it worked. They flew straight in through the open window and I—I packed them.” She swallowed and then added imploringly, “I can’t believe Dumbledore would have been angry, it’s not as though we’re going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?”

“Again--you hear us complaining?” Ron asked, chuckling. “Where are they now?” 

Hermione rummaged around herself for a moment and then extracted from the pile a large volume, bound in faded black leather. She looked a little nauseated and held it as gingerly as if it were something recently dead. “This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ —it’s a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library....If he didn’t do it until he was headmaster, I bet Riddle got all the instruction he needed from here.”

“Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he’d already read that?” Ron asked, but Draco shook his head at once. 

�“He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven,” he explained. “Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you’re right, Hermione, that could easily have been where he got the information.” 

“And the more I’ve read about them,” Hermione went on, “The more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that’s just by making one Horcrux!” 

Draco remembered what Dumbledore had said about Voldemort moving beyond “usual evil,” and he grimaced, readily agreeing. “Does the book say if there’s a way of putting yourself back together?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied with a hollow smile, “But it would be excruciatingly painful. Remorse,” she explained, before either of them had to prompt her. “You’ve got to really feel what you’ve done. There’s a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see Riddle attempting it somehow, can you?” 

“Nope,” Ron agreed. “So does it say how to destroy Horcruxes once they’ve already been created?” 

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting entrails, “Because it warns Dark wizards how strong they have to make the enchantments on them. From all that I’ve read, what Harry did to Riddle’s diary in second year was one of the few really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.” 

“What, stabbing it with a basilisk fang?” Draco asked, a little less enthusiastic at the guaranteed difficulty of that prospect.

“Oh well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then,” Ron remarked, clearly on the same page as Draco. “I was wondering what we were going to do with them.”

“It doesn’t have to be a basilisk fang,” Hermione countered patiently. “It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare—phoenix tears. Our real problem is that there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they’re all incredibly dangerous to carry around with you. That’s a problem we’re going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to put it beyond magical repair.” 

“But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” Ron mused, “Why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?” 

“Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being.” Seeing that Draco and Ron looked thoroughly confused by that, Hermione hurried on, “Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn’t damage your soul at all.” 

“Which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” Ron teased, making Draco chuckle. 

“It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive, untouched,” Hermione pressed on. “But it’s the other way round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can’t exist without it.” 

“Hang on,” Ron interrupted her, frowning. “The bit of soul in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that work, then?” 

“While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for too long, it’s nothing to do with touching it,” she added before Ron could speak. “I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.”

Draco’s mind drifted back to their second year--he rarely thought back that far anymore, not wanting to examine the memories of his own utterly despicable behavior, and Merlin, that was the year that he so gleefully leapt at every chance to call Hermione the worst slur possible--and he made himself focus on what he could recall of Ginny that year. How she had gradually seemed to weaken, as if ill, withdrawn and quiet, until Riddle forced her to write her own hostage note on the wall, and took her to the Chamber.

He hoped that Harry Potter had known the depth of gratitude towards him for saving her that night. Draco could not imagine the past two years without the youngest Weasley being in his corner, from the DA to the Weasley family to the war against Voldemort.

“I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” he murmured, tracing circles on the bedsheets with his fingers. “Why didn’t I ask him? I never really...” His voice tailed away; he was thinking of all the things he should have asked Dumbledore, and of how, since the headmaster had died, it seemed to Draco that he had wasted so many opportunities when Dumbledore had been alive, to find out more...to find out everything....to press harder, to insist that the older wizard _tell_ him...

The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew open with a wall-shaking crash; Hermione shrieked and dropped _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ back out of sight amongst her book piles; Crookshanks streaked under the bed, hissing indignantly; Ron jumped off the bed, skidded on a discarded Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the opposite wall; and Draco instinctively dove for his wand before realizing that he was looking up at Mrs. Weasley, whose hair was disheveled and whose face was contorted with rage as her gaze swept around the shell-shocked trio.

“I’m so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m sure you all need your rest...but there are wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help.” 

“Oh--oh yes,” Hermione gasped, looking terrified as she leapt to her feet, sending books flying in every direction, “We will, we’re coming...we’re sorry...” With an anguished look back at Draco and Ron, Hermione hurried out of the room after Mrs. Weasley. 

“It’s like being a sodding house elf,” Ron complained in an undertone, still massaging his head as he and Draco followed the two women. “Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding’s over, the happier I’ll be.” 

“Yes,” Draco said dryly. “Then we’ll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes....It’ll be like a holiday, won’t it?” Ron started to laugh, but at the sight of the enormous pile of wedding presents waiting for them in Mrs. Weasley’s room, stopped quite abruptly. 

* * *

The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven o’clock. By this point, Draco, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were feeling quite resentful toward Fleur’s family, and it was with ill grace that Ron stumped back upstairs to put on matching socks, while Hermione attempted to smooth out wrinkles in her and Ginny’s dresses that only Mrs. Weasley seemed able to spot. 

Draco and Hermione had revealed the glamour charm to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and demonstrated how it would protect him once they had non-Order members everywhere; the adults had been suitably impressed with Hermione’s endless brilliance, and so Draco was transformed and thoroughly unrecognizable as eleven’o’clock approached.

Once they had all been deemed acceptable by Molly’s sharp assessment, they trooped out into the sunny backyard to await the visitors. 

Draco had not seen the place looking so tidy the entire summer. The rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually littered the steps by the back door were gone, replaced by two new Flutterby bushes standing either side of the door in large pots; though there was no breeze, the leaves waved lazily, giving an attractive rippling effect. 

The chickens had been shut away, the yard had been swept, and the nearby garden had been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up. Draco had become fond of it in its overgrown state, so now he couldn’t help thinking that it looked rather forlorn without its usual militia of gnomes romping around causing trouble. 

He had lost track of how many security enchantments had been placed upon the Burrow by both the Order and the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no longer possible for anybody to travel by magic directly into the place. Mr. Weasley had therefore gone to meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where they were to arrive by Portkey. 

The first sound of their approach was an unusually high-pitched laugh, which turned out to be coming from Mr. Weasley, who appeared at the gate moments later, laden with luggage and leading a beautiful blonde woman in long, leaf-green robes; there was no question that she was Fleur’s mother, sharing her daughter’s ethereal Veela-esque appearance and aura. 

“Maman!” Fleur cried happily, rushing forward to embrace her. “Papa!” Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as his wife; he was a head shorter and extremely plump, with a little, pointed black beard. However, he looked very good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered. 

“You ’ave been to much trouble,” he said in a deep voice. “Fleur tells us you ’ave been working very ’ard.” 

“Oh, it’s been nothing, nothing!” Mrs. Weasley trilled at once. “No trouble at all!” Ron relieved his feelings of disagreement about this claim by aiming a kick at a gnome who was peering out from behind one of the new Flutterby bushes; it made a rude noise at him and then scampered back out of sight. 

“Dear lady!” Monsieur Delacour gushed, still holding Mrs. Weasley’s hand between his own two plump ones and beaming. “We are most honored at the approaching union of our two families! Let me present my wife, Apolline.”

Madame Delacour glided forward and stooped to kiss Mrs. Weasley too. “Enchantée,” she said. “Your ’usband ’as been telling us such amusItdoing stories!” Mr. Weasley gave a borderline-maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley threw him a look, upon which he became immediately silent and assumed an expression appropriate to the sickbed of a close friend. 

“And, of course, you ’ave met my leetle daughter, Gabrielle!” Monsieur Delacour added, beckoning the smaller girl forward. Gabrielle was Fleur in miniature; eleven-years-old, with waist-length hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gave Mrs. Weasley a dazzling smile and hugged her before turning to give Ron and Hermione a shy wave. 

Draco vaguely recalled the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, when Gabrielle had been the “hostage” that Fleur had to recover. Her failure to do so had led to Harry Potter being his usual hero-complex self, bringing her up from the lake bottom along with Ron. Clearly the little girl still deemed Potter’s best friends to be her heroes.

“Well, come in, do!” Mrs. Weasley said brightly, and she ushered the Delacours into the house, with many “No, please!”s and “After you!”s and “Not at all!”s. 

The Delacours, it soon transpired, were helpful, pleasant guests. They were pleased with everything and keen to assist with the preparations for the wedding. Monsieur Delacour pronounced everything from the seating plan to the bridesmaids’ shoes “Charmant!” Madame Delacour was most accomplished at household spells and had the oven properly cleaned in a trice.

Gabrielle followed her elder sister around, trying to assist in any way she could and jabbering away in rapid French. This proved itself an excellent segue for Draco, startling and apparently delighting the Delacours when he answered Gabrielle’s inquiry about the Weasley’s fascinating family clock in perfectly fluent French. As they finally registered the non-redhead among their hosts besides Hermione, Draco introduced himself. 

He gave them the name James Black; this had been agreed-upon in advance over dinner conversations when it had been determined that Draco would need to be in disguise once guests were present--even Fleur’s family. She was in the Order; they were not, and it would be safer for them to not know anything about Draco. Hermione’s glamour charm was therefore vastly appreciated, as it meant that he didn’t need to waste time or effort on taking Polyjuice Potion.

Gabrielle was absolutely ecstatic to be able to communicate to a non-family member in her native tongue, and Draco indulged her, sitting down and conversing with the vivacious little girl about her home and how it differed from England. 

In his peripheral vision, Draco saw Hermione watching him affectionately as she helped wrangle the Delacours’ luggage to the bedrooms. He attempted briefly to offer his own assistance, but Fleur declined; Draco had the feeling that she was relieved to see her sister engaged and occupied rather than accidentally being underfoot in the now-very-crowded house.

Unfortunately, the Burrow really had not been built to accommodate quite this many people. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted down Monsieur and Madame Delacour’s protests and insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle was sleeping with Fleur in Percy’s old room, and Bill would be sharing with Charlie, his best man, once Charlie arrived from Romania. 

Opportunities to make plans together became virtually nonexistent, and it was in desperation that Draco, Ron, and Hermione took to volunteering to feed the chickens just to escape the overcrowded house. 

“But she still won’t leave us alone!” Ron growled, as their second attempt at a meeting in the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a large basket of laundry in her arms. 

“Oh, good, you’ve fed the chickens,” she called as she approached them. “We’d better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow...to put up the tent for the wedding,” she explained, pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked exhausted. “Millamant’s Magic Marquees...they’re very good, Bill’s escorting them....Hermione, can you help me with this?”

Sighing, Hermione nodded and took the basket, heading towards the drying line. Mrs Weasley turned to follow her--then she paused, looking back at Ron and Draco. 

She gave the boys a long, searching look, then smiled a little sadly, straightened up, and resumed walking. Draco watched as she and Hermione waved their wands near the washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air to hang themselves up; suddenly he felt a great wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain he was giving her. He could only imagine how helpless her motherly heart felt, knowing that they were growing up, and wading into a war, and she was powerless to protect them from any of it.

He was granted a reprieve from the first-floor chaos when Mrs. Weasley sent him upstairs to put away some of his and Ron’s finished laundry. Entering the bedroom, Draco set the basket down--then nearly leapt out of his skin when he caught sight of the mirror above Ron’s dresser, because Draco had completely forgotten that he was wearing the glamour charm.

It was no wonder he had stunned his friends when he’d come downstairs like this before; Draco hadn’t looked at his reflection in that time, somehow, and now he saw for the first time what Hermione had put together to alter his appearance. It was a stark contrast to how he normally looked--incredibly pale, somewhat pointed features, and with the striking white-blonde hair that almost every Malfoy in his family’s line had possessed for nearly twenty generations.

Standing before him now in the mirror’s reflection was a slightly taller young man, with more muscle than Draco suspected he could ever achieve with his Seeker-suited lean build. He had shaggy black hair and dark olive skin; his jawline was more square, his eyes a bit more slanted, and as he stared hard at himself, moving closer to take in the finer details, he noticed five o’ clock shadow that he couldn’t grow naturally, and even a unique pattern of freckles across the bridge of his newly somewhat straighter nose. 

The only thing that remained unchanged was the soft grey color of his eyes, a singular stroke of familiarity in an otherwise alien face.

“Here, Draco, there was one more jumper--oh.” He glanced up, finding Hermione’s eyes in the mirror as she realized that he was examining himself. “Yes, right, you didn’t see it when you first tried it...” She smiled faintly. “What do you think? I know it’s a dramatic change, but I figured that it needed to be.”

“Definitely,” Draco confirmed, stepping back to evaluate his overall image once more. A smirk tugged at his unfamiliar mouth, and he looked back at her with an arched eyebrow. “I can’t help but notice that I look a bit...Slavic?” He raised his eyebrows teasingly, and her face immediately flushed bright pink.

“Oh hush,” she blustered a bit, adding the jumper to the pile he’d brought up. “I was just trying to make you look as...un-you as possible. We can’t risk having anyone in the outside world recognizing you. The only thing I couldn’t bear to change were your eyes.”

“I noticed.” He looked in the mirror again, turning his face to the side to examine his profile. “I can’t blame you. Seems we both have a taste for Slavic men.”

In the reflection, he saw her pause, and she tilted her head at him, her brows furrowed slightly. “‘We both’?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

Draco chuckled, turning to face her properly. “I mean we both had a dalliance with Durmstrang boys in fourth year. You had Krum, and I had someone from his entourage. I think his name was Hector? But I can’t recall the last name.”

“Oh…oh!” Hermione looked surprised then, sitting on the bed. “So you....you like both? Men and women I mean? How did your parents handle that?”

He shrugged. “They were alright. I dare you to find a pureblood elite who’s entirely heterosexual. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just…It’s not really accepted in the Muggle world,” Hermione said, cringing a bit. “Some places are better about it than others. But--I’m glad that it’s easier in our world, that’s certainly a good thing.” She nibbled her bottom lip, glancing at him thoughtfully again, and Draco smiled faintly, recognizing the hint of self-doubt hiding in her eyes.

“Just to be clear,” he said lightly, crossing to sit beside her on his cot, and reaching to take her hand. “I like both, but I only like them one at a time. Not that polyamory isn’t also relatively normal for most of the magical world, but personally, I’m of the monogamous mentality.”

Hermione huffed, smiling shyly as she blushed. “That transparent, am I?” She linked her fingers through his, ducking her head so that some of her curls concealed her face. “But, ah, thanks. For telling me, and for, you know, clarifying that part.”

Draco raised his free hand, brushing the strands back behind her ear again. “Don’t worry,” he murmured teasingly. “I’d say my first and foremost type has always been brainy brunettes.” He leaned forward, and Hermione tilted her face at once to meet him, soft and pliant as Draco kissed her delicately. Her other hand came to rest on his chest, and Draco shifted to angle himself more towards her, deepening the kiss a little, warmth rising in his body.

Then Hermione pulled back, making a small sound like a laugh. Draco looked at her in confusion, and she gave him the look that usually meant he was either about to get to tease her, or need to apologize for something. 

“I forgot to say,” Hermione said, smirking as she saw the wary look in his eyes. “The day that--that everything went to hell back at Hogwarts, after you’d left with Dumbledore...I was back in my common room waiting for word. And McLaggen came in, walked right over to me, and formally apologized for everything he’d done to make me uncomfortable. Including the chocolates--he apologized for that out loud, in front of multiple other Gryffindors.”

 _Huh_. Draco had trusted that his intimidation efforts wouldn’t be wasted, but he hadn’t expected McLaggen to be that thorough in his atonement. “Well, that’s good I suppose. McGonagall must’ve--”

“You promised,” Hermione cut him off, poking him in the chest; he could tell from her tone that she was only mildly miffed, and not actually angry with him. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t go after him.”

“I didn’t hurt him,” Draco pointed out, perfectly reasonable. “I just spoke to him. He hit his own head against the wall when I _lightly_ pushed him.”

She huffed, rolling her eyes. “Pushing counts as physical contact, Draco.”

“You said not to hurt him, not that I had to avoid all physical contact,” he pointed out, smirking as she opened her mouth, then closed it again, recognizing that she’d already lost the argument. “You didn’t specify thoroughly enough. I’m a Slytherin. We find the loopholes.”

“Oh, you think you’re _so_ clever,” she muttered, but she was smiling again now, too. “Just you wait, I’ll master getting around your bloody _loopholes_.”

“I look forward to it,” Draco countered, then tipped her chin up to recapture her lips in a firmer kiss. Hermione let out a tiny squeak, apparently surprised by his more assertive movement; her lips parted beneath his, and Draco took full advantage, teasing and tasting a little deeper, savoring the way that Hermione practically melted into his arms.

The door swung open, and they jumped apart with startled gasps; Draco was about ready to actually get into it with Mrs. Weasley over this constant barrage of interruptions, especially since this time it was just plain bloody inconvenient--

But it was Ginny, not her mother, wearing jeans and a tank top with her hair bound up in a bandana to accommodate the constant work continuing in the house and yard. She was grinning far too knowingly at the two of them. “Ron’s coming upstairs with your fresh bedding from the laundry,” she advised them. “So if you’re aiming to stay a secret still, best put a pause on the snogging.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk about staying secret,” Hermione teasingly retorted, fanning her blushing face as she rose from the cot to go and check in the mirror that her hair and dress were straightened. Draco looked over at her in confusion, unsure what that meant, and Hermione giggled and gave Ginny a pointed look.

The ginger rolled her eyes, looking bemused. “I’m not keeping Luna a _secret_ ,” she argued. “I’m just not telling Mum until after the wedding. Obviously she’s not going to be bothered, but it will throw her a bit that her one and only baby girl isn’t going to give her grandkids. At least not biologically, anyway.”

Letting out a startled laugh at this revelation, Draco stood and offered her a high five. “I commend your choice of girlfriends,” he said, and Ginny beamed at him as she accepted the high five happily before starting and hurrying back out of the room as Mrs. Weasley called for her from the floor below.

Ron entered the bedroom, looking ready to collapse. “Mum’s in a right state,” he said heavily, dragging himself to the bed to start switching the sheets for the clean ones. “She wants to know what we three are plotting, because she ‘knows it’s something.’” Draco started to shake his head, frowning, but Ron smiled at him reassuringly. “Don’t worry, no one is spilling the beans. We’ve just gotta get through the wedding, and then see what happens...have we settled on where to start?”

Draco could only shake his head again; they’d been working on their list of probable places that Voldemort would choose, but nothing about it stood out as the most likely or the obvious location to head to first.

Tonks and Sirius joined them for dinner that evening, though Remus was unable to, and Draco was glad to get to spend more time with his cousins. The Delacours, at Fleur’s carefully arranged suggestion, chose to spend the evening exploring the quaint nearby village, which allowed Draco to be himself for most of the night. He still demonstrated the glamour charm for Tonks and Sirius, just to keep them informed; Tonks found the glamour look absolutely hysterical, playfully altering her hair to match the color and texture of his before Draco convinced her that she looked far better with the neon pink. 

He also made sure to let them know about his false name for when the Delacours or anyone else was about, and Draco did not miss the way that Sirius looked mildly emotional at hearing that Draco had adopted his surname for his disguise.

Over the meal, the adults broke the news that Sirius would not be leaving again after supper; he was going to move into the Burrow for the time being, since it was the new headquarters of the Order. “Snape had to give up Grimmauld Place’s location, since he was one of the Secret-Keepers as well...if he hadn’t, that’d seem suspicious.” Sirius grimaced. “He’s not able to communicate with us too freely, but--”

“I’ve been able to see him,” Tonks nodded, taking over. “Since I can change my appearance without potion or charm--though, on that note, Hermione, you did some stunning work,” she added, gesturing at the charm hanging over Draco’s shirt, and Hermione beamed at the praise. “But yeah--I’m able to make contact with Snape occasionally, to exchange intel in passing. I’ve let him know that everyone’s alright--including you” she added, smiling comfortingly at Draco. 

He nodded gratefully, glad that his godfather knew he was safe.

As they cleared the table afterwards, he caught Tonks’ attention and drew her aside. “Do you...when you’ve spoken to Severus, has he ever mentioned my parents?” he asked uneasily. “Obviously I’ve heard nothing, I don’t even know if they’re...”

His cousin shook her head regretfully, then drew him into a tight, one-armed hug. “I haven’t...but don’t worry, little dragon. Once this mess is over, you’ll see them again. Maybe we can even sway things in Lucius’ favor, as far as prison is concerned. It’ll be alright.”

Draco said nothing, unsure of the wisdom in that idea. His father wasn’t a monster, not in the same way that Voldemort was--but he _was_ a Death Eater, and loyal to that cause. If he survived the war--and the thought of the opposite made Draco’s stomach churn--then the older Malfoy man would have to face the consequences that were due.

Draco just wished that his mother didn’t have to believe that her only child was dead, in the meantime. He had to pray that he would get to reunite with her, as well.

Molly dished out servings of banoffee pie and hot buttered rum, and they all moved to the garden to enjoy what remained of warm summer weather to allow for such a thing. “Is Remus alright?” Hermione asked Tonks softly, looking understandably concerned for their friend. “Why was he unable to come with you tonight?”

The metamorphmagus sighed, circling a fingertip absently around the rim of her mug. “Things are getting...a lot more tense, out there,” she said at length. “The Ministry is causing more problems than they are doing anyone any good. They’re buckling from how desperate the community is for answers, for promises of security...Scrimgeour is overcompensating hard, pretending that everything is fine and dandy, despite them making dozens of false arrests.” She swallowed, shaking her head tiredly. “This isn’t public knowledge yet, but I’ll tell you lot, of course; there was another mass-breakout from Azkaban.”

The group sat in somber silence, processing that. Draco ate his final bite of pie without tasting it, wondering how many more Death Eaters were now loose, and wreaking havoc at their master’s bidding.

Tonks left before the Delacours returned, and Sirius went to the shed where his bike was concealed; he and Arthur had done some adjustments to make the space suitable for him to sleep in, in order to minimize his exposure to the Delacours when he wasn’t disguised in some manner. Draco, too, retreated to his and Ron’s room in order to be spared having to bother with the glamour charm.

Hermione joined him shortly after, looking sheepish. “I claimed I’m going to bed early,” she said softly, smiling faintly. “I bundled up my bed some so it looks like I’m in there, but I need to do more sorting of my books before my mind can settle...”

Draco settled back against the wall on his cot, watching her with tender eyes as she reclaimed her seat in the midst of her book piles and continued perusing them, and either setting them in neat piles or tossing them back into the bin that contained her rejections. At some point footsteps came upstairs; Ginny poked her head in to say goodnight, and Ron settled on the floor near Hermione, looking at the list of locations they’d taken the risk of writing down as they tried to plan their path.

Watching the two of them, Draco suddenly felt a wave of uncertainty. So many times over the past two years, he’d nearly lost them both. He knew that this fight had been theirs long before he had ever come into the picture--but that hardly mattered. He _was_ part of it now, and he cared so desperately about the two of them. He needed them to stay safe...

He drew a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak; Ron glanced at him and let out a low laugh. “Uh oh, looks like you were right, ‘Mione. Right on schedule--he’s gonna try and say now that we shouldn’t go with him.”

Hermione shot Draco a stern look, and he shut his mouth promptly. “The matter is settled,” she reminded him firmly. “We’ve put in all the work, and you _need_ us.” She discarded the tome she’d been holding. “My parents are now in Australia with modified memories, no knowledge of the magical world, and they don’t know that they have a daughter. If...if something happens, to me I mean, then they’ll be safe and happy that way indefinitely. Otherwise, I’ll be able to bring them safely home after it’s all over.”

“And I’m going to be staying home from Hogwarts due to being deathly ill from spattergroit.” At Draco’s bewildered look, Ron pointed up at the ceiling. “We’ve got a resident ghoul in this house--the one you’ve heard moaning and grouching about sometimes?” Draco nodded, because he had indeed heard the strange sounds on his first night there, and Arthur had assured him that their attic dweller was harmless.

“Well, we’ve set up his attic like a sort of makeshift sick room,” Ron went on, clearly proud of this. “Dad and the twins helped me--the ghoul’s now wearing my old pajamas, and he’s got a mop of red hair. Spattergroit is supposedly very contagious, so any Ministry people who come to confirm won’t get close to see that he isn’t me covered in nasty sores.”

“Your--your dad helped?” Draco repeated, shocked. “He’s okay with what we’re doing?”

“He doesn’t know; I told you we weren’t going to let it slip,” Ron replied. “But he does accept that we can’t go back to school, not until it’s all over--even with Snape there trying to try and protect the kids, there are Death Eaters placed there now, it’s just too risky. So he agreed, and then he got the twins to help too, so that we wouldn’t scare Mum with her finding out before it’s too late to stop us from going.”

Draco looked back at forth between them, and finally deflated, conceding the point. “...alright, you impossible, stubborn-arsed Gryffindors. We all go.”

Nodding, Hermione reached over to take the slip of parchment from Ron, frowning at it. “We need to settle _this_ bit, too. As soon as the wedding’s over, the sooner we go the better. And we need to know what direction to start walking....”

“I was thinking about that,” Draco said slowly. “I had a thought--we hadn’t written this down yet, but...I’m wondering if...possibly...it might be worthwhile to go to where this all began? To where Riddle had his first downfall.” Comprehension crossed Hermione’s face, but not Ron’s, so Draco clarified. “Godric’s Hollow, where Harry was born.”

“Hmm...” Hermione looked torn between unease and understanding. “I think I might agree--though we’d need to be _so_ cautious, just in case Riddle’s keeping a watch over the town. He wouldn’t see it sentimentally, of course, it’s a bad memory for him, but it certainly is highly significant in his personal history.”

“Worth thinking about,” Ron said finally, then stifled a yawn. “Blimey, though, we should actually sleep. Don’t want Mum badgering us about ‘going to bed early’ and then looking like we talked all night.” 

He rose to go and brush his teeth as the others murmured agreement. Hermione packed a final book, then--with a quick glance to make sure Ron was around the corner--she rose and came over to lean in and kiss Draco swiftly, laughing softly when he cupped her cheek with his hand to draw it out for a heartbeat.

“I’m glad you don’t have to wear the glamour when we can sneak moments like this,” she whispered, and Draco tilted his head questioningly. “Well, it’s still your eyes, and that’s comforting, but--it’s a bit odd to imagine kissing you with the wrong mouth.” She blushed a little as he chuckled. “I just mean--I like your face as it is. I like _your_ lips.”

“Well, good thing that’s mutual,” he murmured back, rising and cradling her face. “I quite like your lips, too.” They stole one more breathless little kiss; then he let her go as Ron exited the bathroom again, smiling faintly as Hermione went to take her turn before heading to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's official! The final chapter count of The Iron Sky's main story shall be 46. It will continue, however, in on-off's, side-stories, and time stamps.
> 
> And as always, your continued readership and the love and comments we receive are beyond appreciated. You keep us writing!
> 
> Art related to this chapter, drawn by author Minx: https://minxchester.tumblr.com/post/190905661841


	29. Where Frozen Breath Originates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘I’ve had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note for anyone who's iffy over WIPs, or knows someone who is--we've written the whole fic. :D It is officially complete, and now posting weekly for your torturous pleasure. <3

The day before the wedding they got down to the hardest work, and in the end it required everyone on hand in order to raise the tent in which the ceremony would take place. 

Draco donned his glamour in order to help as well, refusing to be cooped up inside the house while everyone else sweated and labored to make everything perfect for the big day. It took some adapting to the different muscle build, but Hermione hadn’t made him so drastically different that Draco couldn’t get the hang of it quickly enough.

By the time they got it all arranged and broke for a hard-earned and much-needed supper, the Burrow yard looked absolutely spectacular. 

There were flowers and fairy lights placed strategically so that every inch of the lawn would be cast in a soft glow, the flowers and leaves swaying slightly without the presence of breezes. At the head of the tent stood the archway under which Bill and Fleur would exchange their vows; it was lined with twining golden vines and enormous ivory flower bulbs that would blossom when the ceremony itself concluded, and release golden-feathered doves that would fly free in celebration of the newly-bonded couple.

Everybody felt cheerier, too, now that they could see the fruits of their work. Once they’d all been fed, everyone parted ways to get cleaned up and changed before having tea and dessert. Draco had just finished bathing and dressing when he had a minor commotion in the hall, and he poked his head out to find Ron standing at Ginny’s bedroom door, red-faced.

“--not as if I knew Luna had come early, and--that’s not even the point, I mean, you never told me you’re--that you--”

_ Ah _ . Draco straightened his shirt as he crossed the landing, joined by Hermione as she came up the stairs looking anxious. “Ron, lower your voice,” she implored, grabbing Ron’s arm. “Obviously you weren’t expecting this, but there’s no need to bring the whole household up here.”

“Does Mum know?” Ron demanded of Ginny. Looking over the taller boy’s shoulder, Draco could see that she was standing defiantly in her room; behind her, Luna was seated cross-legged on Ginny’s bed, looking concerned but not too terribly upset as the siblings confronted one another.

“Know which bit, that I’m queer or that I’m dating Luna?” Ginny asked shortly, and Draco was vividly reminded of the fact that she had a reputation all through Hogwarts for handling herself. Enough people had been on the receiving end of her Bat-Bogey Hexes not to ever cross the youngest Weasley again. “She doesn’t know either yet, and I swear, Ron, if you take that away from us--if you tell her before I’m ready to--”

“You know she isn’t going to care,” Ron countered. “ _ I’m  _ only angry because you didn’t tell me! And how’s that fair to Luna, anyway, why’re you keeping her a secret?”

“Ron, stop it,” Draco interrupted him, giving the ginger a quick shake. “It’s Ginny’s relationship, not yours. If she wants to wait till after the wedding so as to not add stress for your mother, that’s for them to choose, not you.”

Luna piped up then. “And we did decide  _ together _ , Ron. Everything’s been so horrid lately, and your mum’s planning this entire gorgeous wedding--the yard looks so lovely.” She smiled serenely. “Once that’s all settled, then we’ll sit down with your parents and let them know that we’re a couple. It’ll be alright.”

Ron looked unsure for a moment longer; Hermione took his arm, tugging him back towards his and Draco’s room, and finally he deflated a little. “...Fine, but. I want to hear more about it later.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes as she pushed Ron ahead of her into the boys’ bedroom. “Remember how fussy you got about being teased over Lavender, and now about Pansy? Honestly, Ron. Ginny’s not a child, she can handle her own dating life and decisions.”

“Wait, you knew, though, didn’t you?” Ron asked accusingly, and Hermione startled, but Draco just snorted a laugh, crossing to his own cot.

“You’re asking if Hermione Granger knew something before you did?” Draco asked wryly, and Ron blinked, then seemed to realize the silliness of being indignant over that. “But she’s right, Ron. You can’t run your sister’s life, for goodness’ sake. I know your parents won’t be too upset about it, but that doesn’t mean Ginny’s obligated to say anything before she’s ready and comfortable doing so. And at least through tomorrow, we’re all here for Bill and Fleur--not to discuss everyone else’s relationships.”

Outside the window they heard voices rising; from downstairs, Molly called out in surprise. The three of them went to the bedroom window, and were shocked to see that Arthur was returning home from work...with the Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, at his side.

The two men vanished from view as they entered the house, and after a few minutes of quiet, they heard Molly call out for Ron and Hermione to come downstairs. Bewildered, they left the bedroom, Hermione’s fingers brushing against Draco’s tenderly as she moved to follow Ron head down the stairs. Draco remained at the top of the steps, just out of sight, and Ginny and Luna joined him there.

“You should probably glamour-up--just in case,” Ginny whispered, and Draco nodded, grasping the charm and whispering the incantation.

Luna smiled pleasantly at him. “You look very handsome like that,” she complimented him. “But I think I prefer how you normally look. We pale blonde folk have a very unique aesthetic that I think is too nice to do away with.”

“Appreciate it, Lovegood,” Draco replied, chuckling before the three of them quieted down to try and eavesdrop on what was happening below.

Through the slats of the staircase railing, Draco could see a pair of gleaming, expensive-looking leather shoes; the Minister had placed himself in the slouchy armchair normally occupied by Arthur. Hermione and Ron sat down side-by-side on the sofa across the coffee table from him, staring at Scrimgeour until he broke the awkward silence.

“I have some questions for the pair of you, but I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you—” He pointed at Hermione “—can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald.” 

“We’re not separating,” Ron said promptly, and Hermione nodded vigorously. Draco had to admit, he was mildly impressed. He didn’t think he had ever heard Ron speak to an authority figure with that level of steel in his voice. “You can speak to us together, or not at all.” 

Scrimgeour was quiet for a moment, and although Draco could not see the man’s face, the tension in Hermione’s posture made him suspect that the Minister was wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early. He could only imagine the expression on the older wizard’s grizzled face. “Very well then, together,” he said at length, his tone a little cooler. He cleared his throat. “I am here, as I’m sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.” 

Ron and Hermione looked sharply at one another, and at the top of the stairs, Draco, Ginny, and Luna all sucked in startled breaths. “A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?” Scrimgeour inquired, though his tone was still rather flat.

“No,” Hermione said after a pause, and she sounded breathy; Draco knew her well enough to know that she was struggling not to let the Minister see her grief at this revelation. “No, we...I wouldn’t have thought...”

Again, Ron’s voice was impressively hard considering that it was  _ the _ Minister of Magic to whom he was speaking. “Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?” 

“Well, that’s obvious,” Hermione said before Scrimgeour could answer. There was a quiver of rage overriding the pain in her voice now. “They wanted to examine whatever he’s left us. You had no right to do that!” she added, and her voice hardened slightly to match Ron’s sharp tone. 

“I had every right,” Scrimgeour countered dismissively. “The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate the contents of a will—” 

“That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts,” Hermione snapped. “And the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased’s possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed? To a pair of teenagers, really?” 

“Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?” Scrimgeour asked, and Draco curled his lip at the pointed evasion of answering her very apt question. 

“No, I'm not,” Hermione retorted. “I’m hoping to do some good in the world!” Ron laughed aloud, and Draco had to cover his mouth to stifle his own amusement. Ginny snorted audibly, but the three people downstairs did not seem to hear her.

Scrimgeour did not reply to that, and after a beat, Ron spoke again. “So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can’t think of a pretext to keep them?”

“No, it’ll be because the thirty-one days are up,” Hermione said at once. “They can’t keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they’re dangerous. Right?” 

“Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?” Scrimgeour asked, once more ignoring Hermione. 

Ron looked and sounded startled. “Me? Not—not really ...it was always Harry who...and then Hermione, or...”

He trailed off, looked over at Hermione, and Draco knew without being able to see it that Hermione was giving Ron a  _ stop-talking-now! _ sort of look; but the damage was done: Scrimgeour looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. 

He swooped like a bird of prey upon Ron’s answer. “If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions—his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects—were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?” 

“I...dunno,” Ron said. The steel was gone from his tone now, bewilderment and the sense that they were navigating a chess game seemingly throwing him off his balance. “I...when I say we weren’t close...I mean, I think he liked me.... ” 

“You’re being modest, Ron,” Hermione said softly. “Dumbledore was very fond of you.” 

Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch. From inside of it, he removed a scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read aloud. “‘The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’...Yes, here we are....‘To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.’” From the bag, Scrimgeour out an object that looked something like a silver cigarette lighter.

Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it over in his fingers, looking stunned. He clicked the small tab curiously, and the lights from the lamps throughout the room flew through the air and into the Deluminator, casting the room into deep shadow. Ron tapped it again, and the little glowing orbs flashed back to their places, brightening the room back up.

“That is an exceptionally valuable object,” Scrimgeour remarked, and Draco knew that he had to be watching Ron closely. “It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore’s own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?” Ron just shook his head, looking even more stunned. “Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students,” Scrimgeour persevered. “Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you two. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put his Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?” 

“Put out lights, I s’pose,” mumbled Ron. “What else could I do with it?” 

Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions of his own to offer. After squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turned back to Dumbledore’s will. “‘To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive. In addition, I leave a token of her earliest years at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and loyalty.’” 

Now Scrimgeour pulled out of the bag two small books bound together, both of which looked as ancient as the copy of  _ Secrets of the Darkest Art  _ upstairs. The binding of the book on top was stained and peeling in places. 

Hermione took the books from Scrimgeour without a word. She unbound them, leaving the plain black book on her lap as she held the brown on, gazing at it wordlessly. Even from a distance away, Draco saw that the title was in runes; he couldn’t read them from the top of the stairs. As he watched Hermione, though, a tear splashed onto the embossed symbols. 

“Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?” Scrimgeour asked. 

“He...he knew that I love books,” Hermione murmured in a thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve. 

“But why that particular book? Or the unmarked tome?”

“I don’t know. He must have thought I’d enjoy it.” Hermione inhaled raggedly. “And that I’d find a use for the other one, whatever it is.”

“Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?” 

“No, I didn’t,” Hermione said, still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. Some of the impatience and indignation had returned to her tone. “And if the Ministry hasn’t found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will.” She suppressed a shuddery sob. Ron reached to put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze, and Draco felt a surge of affection and gratitude for the redhead. 

Dusk was settling outside now; the tent marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white against the dark hedges. “Is that’s all, then?” Hermione asked, making to rise from the sofa with the books re-tied together, and clutched to her chest. 

“Not quite,” Scrimgeour replied, and Draco could tell from his tone that he was struggling to conceal his irritation over not getting any information that he wanted out of this. “Dumbledore left you both a shared bequest.” 

“What is it?” Ron asked, his voice terse again.

“The sword of Godric Gryffindor,” the Minister answered, and Hermione and Ron both stiffened. 

Draco glanced at Ginny with raised eyebrows; she shook her head and shrugged, clearly as lost as he was, along with Ron and Hermione downstairs. “Where is it?” Hermione asked, but Scrimgeour merely made a sound of dismissal. 

“Unfortunately,” he said in a delicate tone, “That sword was not Dumbledore’s to give away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, belongs at Hogwarts school. According to our historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor,” Scrimgeour added. “That does not make it the exclusive property of any student, whatever Dumbledore may have decided.” Scrimgeour paused, then began predictably, “Why do you think— ?” 

“—Dumbledore wanted to give us the sword?” Hermione asked, and now she was audibly struggling to keep her temper. “Maybe he thought it would look nice on the wall.”

“This is not a joke!” Scrimgeour growled abruptly, and Luna startled at Ginny’s side when his voice rose so suddenly. “Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword, because he believed that the pair of you could replace Harry Potter in the quest to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” 

“Interesting theory,” Hermione said snippily. “Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword into Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So is this what you’ve been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to find codes in empty books? People are dying--we’ve both nearly joined that list—but there’s been no talk about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to cooperate with you!”

“You go too far!” Scrimgeour shouted, and his expensively-shoed feet moved as he stood up swift; Ron and Hermione both jumped to their feet, too. Scrimgeour limped forward, bringing him into the view of the three sitting upstairs, and he actually jabbed Hermione in the chest with the point of his wand. It singed a hole in Hermione’s T-shirt like a lit cigarette. Draco stiffened, tensing to rise, and both Ginny and Luna seized his arms to keep him where he was.

“Oi!” Ron snarled, jumping up and raising his own wand, but Hermione threw her hand out to stop him, gasping, “No! Do you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?” 

“Remembered you’re not at school, have you?” Scrimgeour asked harshly, breathing hard into her face. “Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who constantly forgave your insolence and insubordination? You two continue to strut about as if his favoritism made you as untouchable as Harry Potter--but it is not up to a pair of seventeen-year-olds to tell me how to do my job! It’s time you learned some respect!” 

“It’s time you earned it,” Hermione countered, seemingly completely unafraid of having the Minister of Magic himself pointing his wand at her heart, so long as Ron wasn’t retaliating.

The floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps, and then the door to the sitting room burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in. “We—we thought we heard—” began Mr. Weasley, looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Hermione and the Minister virtually nose to nose. 

“—raised voices,” Mrs. Weasley panted, finishing the thought. 

Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Ron and Hermione, glancing at the hole he had made in her T-shirt. He seemed to regret his loss of temper. “It—it was nothing,” he growled, hastily stowing his wand. “I...regret your attitude,” he went on, looking Hermione full in the face once more. “You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you—what Dumbledore—both desired. We ought to be working together.” 

“We don’t like your methods, Minister,” Hermione replied softly. “Remember?”

Draco saw her raise her right fist and display the back of her hand to Scrimgeour, and he didn’t need to be beside her to be able to vividly picture the scars that still stood out white on the back of it, spelling  _ I must not question authority.  _

Scrimgeour’s expression hardened. He turned away from them all without another word and limped from the room. Mrs. Weasley hurried after him; Draco heard her stop at the back door. After a minute or so she called back, “He’s gone!” 

“What did he want?” Mr. Weasley asked, looking back at Ron and Hermione as Mrs. Weasley came hurrying back to them. 

“To give us the items that Dumbledore left us in his will,” Ron replied. “They’ve only just released the contents.”

“Bureaucratic power-grabbing pricks,” Hermione added succinctly, making every startle slightly at hearing her swear. “ _ Ridiculous _ , that’s what it is.” She picked the books back up from where she’d dropped them on the sofa when they’d all risen in anger, and Ron slipped the Deluminator into his jeans pocket.

Tea and dessert were enjoyed hastily, and when Luna followed Draco and Ginny downstairs to join everyone, Mrs. Weasley blithely welcomed her to stay the night with them since she would be attending the wedding the next day, anyway.

Afterwards, the five teenagers gathered in Ron and Draco’s room together, examining the items they’d received from Dumbledore with fascination. The Deluminator was straightforward enough, though it was quickly apparent that Ron was guaranteed to develop a bad habit of clicking it absent-mindedly, and plunging the room into darkness. The four of them who had grown up in the magical community were fondly amused at finding out that Hermione was unfamiliar with the book she’d received,  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard.  _

When she removed the twine binding the two books and lifted the second for inspection, however, Ginny cried out in horror before clasping a hand to her mouth to mute herself. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the black leather, and Hermione swallowed, nodding slowly as if she had read Ginny’s mind.

“Tom Riddle’s diary,” she said softly, and Draco blinked as he very abruptly recognized the battered, damaged book that he had seen multiple times in Dumbledore’s office. It did not appear to bear those damages anymore--but even as they all gazed at it, the leather shimmered and whatever charm Dumbledore had placed on it faded.

Once more, the book had a large round hole punctured through it from the basilisk fang, and long-dried ink was crusted over its surface and the edges of the frayed pages.

He glanced at Ron and Hermione, and found that they were already looking back at him, both wide-eyed. The three of them, alone, knew that the diary had been Riddle’s first Horcrux...so the question was, why had Dumbledore believed that they would need it?

“We’d better sleep,” Luna remarked after a long while of everyone sitting quietly, thinking. “It’s very late. And we all need to be rested to help Molly with the wedding.” The others nodded, and the inherited items were placed in the corner for Hermione to pack later.

Ginny and Luna went to the other bedroom, and Draco waited for Ron to finish before he went to brush his teeth. In the hallway he found Hermione waiting for him, and they moved closer to the stairs to avoid being heard. She was still holding the diary. “I opened it as I was going to put it with my things,” she whispered, offering it to him. Draco took it and tried to lift the cover; it didn’t budge. 

“I think Dumbledore charmed it so that only I can,” Hermione explained. Taking the book back, she opened it effortlessly, showing him the insides. Draco inhaled sharply; the broken pieces of the Gaunt family ring, another of the Horcruxes, was tucked into the hold that the basilisk fang had left. “I’ve no idea what it means, though clearly Dumbledore wanted us to have these pieces of Riddle’s puzzle...without the Ministry knowing that we do.”

She leaned up on her toes, risking a very brief kiss to his lips. “We’ll think about it some more tomorrow,” Hermione whispered, and when Draco nodded, she smiled and slipped off to join the other girls for bed.

Draco returned to his own room and conveyed the discovery of the ring to Ron, who was equally bewildered over why Dumbledore wanted them to have already-destroyed Horcruxes. Turning off the lights, they crawled into bed, and Draco drifted into a fitful sleep, dreaming of being lost, adrift in ink-black dark waters.

* * *

The day of the wedding dawned with absolutely perfect weather, and despite the events of the evening before, everyone felt well-rested and eager to get things underway. Draco put his glamour on first thing when he got up for the day, because there was no way of knowing who might turn up and when for the wedding. 

Molly had altered some of Bill’s old dress robes to fit him--it wasn’t as if the groom needed those, given that he was wearing a brand-new wedding suit gifted to him from his parents-in-law-to-be--and Draco joined Ron and the twins with the task of seating guests as they began to arrive.

Hermione was on-hand along with Ginny to help Molly out with every little detail, and Draco felt his breath leave his lungs as if he’d been punched--in an oddly good way--when he spotted her hurrying about in a gorgeous, floaty lilac dress and simple black heels.

Luna was ordered to consider herself a guest, not a helper, and Draco grinned when he saw her approaching the marquee with a man who was absolutely and undeniably her father. The older wizard was slightly cross-eyed, with shoulder-length white hair the texture of candyfloss, wearing a cap whose tassel dangled in front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.

“This is my daddy, Xenophilius Lovegood,” Luna introduced him, beaming proudly up at him. “Daddy, this is Ronald Weasley--Ron--he’s Ginny’s brother, one year above us. And this is--ah, James Black, he’s a cousin of the family.”

“Pleasure, pleasure,” Mr. Lovegood said, though Draco wasn’t entirely sure if he’d actually registered the names his daughter had told him. “Your family, all so lovely--so kind of them to invite me to this event...I shall make certain that I place a note of congratulations in tomorrow’s copy of The Quibbler...”

Draco grinned back at him, returning Lovegood’s handshake--the man didn’t seem to know how to do it exactly, his fingers flexing confusedly against Draco’s--and nodded. “Right, you’re the editor,” he said, chuckling. “I’m certainly a fan of your publication, sir--the crosswords in particular, they’re better than the ones that ever get printed in the _Prophet_ , or any other magazines.”

Mr. Lovegood looked surprised, and his gaze sharpened and focused on Draco more properly before he smiled back at him with genuine warmth. “So kind of you to say--always glad to hear the things that my readers appreciate. I’ll make sure that tomorrow’s puzzle is nuptial-themed, perhaps...”

“Daddy, the Weasleys’ garden has gnomes in it,” Luna told him, taking his hand and giving the boys a little wave before she began drawing her father away. “They’re hiding now because they were shooed away for the wedding, but I’m sure we can find one or two to talk to us...”

“Ron,” Fred muttered, passing them with a very pretty blonde woman on his arm--from her glowing aura, Draco assumed she was some degree of Veela, and therefore presumably one of Fleur’s many relatives. “Next one is  _ all _ you, little brother.”

Ron looked towards the gate where guests were Apparating into view and then entering the yard to be escorted to their seats, and he groaned. “Bloody hell, those gits--saddling me with Aunt Muriel...” He sighed, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t sentence you to handling her even if you weren’t undercover, mate. Blimey...try to avoid letting her lock onto you for any length of conversation.” 

He shuffled forward, offering the very ancient witch his arm, and even from across the yard Draco could hear her beginning to prattle away. “...and your hair’s much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin’s beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet.”

The next pair of guests through the gate were an attractive young couple who Draco didn’t recognize; a woman with long sleek blonde hair and shocking blue eyes, and a young lad who was similar in appearance, making Draco believe for a moment that they were siblings. 

But when they walked up to him and offered their invitations, both smirking at him with what seemed to be anticipation, Draco started when he saw the ring that the woman was wearing. “Bloody hell _ \--Pansy?” _

She grinned and nodded, and her companion--Theo, judging by the very small pin on his lapel bearing the Nott family crest--winked at him. “Yep, Polyjuice’d for safety,” he confirmed. “Hermione wrote to us--very clever at hiding messages, your girl--and she said you’d be the usher who doesn’t look like a standard Weasley.”

Draco didn’t care if it drew any attention; he hugged them both, overjoyed to see his best friends. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t written. The whole faking my death thing...everything was such a mess.”

“We know,” Pansy assured him, squeezing his hand. “Hermione told us everything at the funeral. It’s okay. I’m just so glad that it  _ was _ fake, because if you had actually died, I’d have killed you.” She hesitated, then added in a slightly gentler tone. “In case it was worrying you, your...your mum’s okay. I mean, mostly. It’s not good, obviously, but...we made sure to go by. Showed her some love.”

“Thank you,” Draco said softly. He swallowed, then pasted on another smile, gesturing to the seats. “Come on, let’s get you settled--and save me one, I’m not sitting right up front with the family."

As the marquee filled, one more person entered the yard who Draco didn’t recognize by his face; but he didn’t need to, because by now, Draco would know Sirius’ easy swagger anywhere. He chuckled as his cousin reached him and hugged him at once, squeezing back tightly. “I’m glad we can both be here for this,” Sirius said warmly. “Bless Hermione, this glamour bit of yours--if I didn’t know a bit by now about some of your mannerisms, I’d refuse to believe it’s you.”

“Well, you’re pretty strange, too,” Draco teased back, gesturing at Sirius’ very uncharacteristic red hair. “I assume you’re just ‘another Weasley cousin?’”

“Call me Barney,” Sirius confirmed, smirking as he picked up one of the wedding programs and made his way along the rows to find a spot near the enlarged, reinforced chair that had been reserved for Hagrid.

Draco turned to see if there was anyone else coming, and he paused when he saw that Hermione had stopped in her tracks between the house and the tent, staring at the newest arrival. Draco looked over to see who had shown up--and he blinked, his gut clenching when he recognized Viktor bloody Krum making his way from the garden gate to where she stood. The smile he gave her was  _ far _ too soft and warm for Draco’s liking.

They were too far away for him to hear the greeting that they exchanged, but after a moment Hermione excused herself to resume assisting Molly and Ginny. Krum watched her go, then approached the marquee, smiling politely at Draco and offering his invitation. Of course he wouldn’t have recognized him, even if Draco had been wearing his own face...they’d hardly interacted three years before.

There was a momentary awkward pause as they stared at each other before Draco remembered to move, accepting the invitation and directing Krum to a suitable seat--one near the Veela cousins, who all were clearly delighted to see the famous Quidditch player. Draco hoped desperately that they would prove an adequate distraction.

As the time approached for the ceremony to begin, Hermione joined him, giggling as she took the arm that Draco offered and following him to the seats that Pansy and Theo had saved for them, just behind the Weasley family’s reserved rows on Bill’s side of the aisle.

A sense of eager anticipation had filled the warm tent, the general murmuring broken by occasional spurts of soft, excited laughter. Then the enchanted orchestra began playing softly as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley entered and strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at their relatives; Mrs. Weasley was wearing a brand-new set of amethyst-colored robes with a matching hat.

A moment later, Bill and Charlie stood up at the front of the marquee, both wearing their new dress robes, with large white roses in their buttonholes; Fred wolf-whistled and there was an outbreak of giggling from the veela cousins. 

Then the crowd fell silent as the music swelled, shifting into the traditional bridal march. “Ooooh!” Hermione gasped quietly, swiveling around in her seat to look toward the entrance. A great collective sigh issued from the assembled witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur came walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur Delacour bouncing and beaming.

Fleur was wearing a very simple white dress and was emitting a strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually dimmed everyone else by comparison, today it beautified everybody it fell upon. Ginny and Gabrielle, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than usual, and once Fleur had reached him, Bill did not look as though he had ever met Fenrir Greyback.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the officiant, standing on a raised little platform in front of Bill and Fleur. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls...”

It was only at this moment that Draco had realized he had never actually gone to a wedding before. It wasn’t like he had been close to other family members as a child, and there hadn’t been any close family friends who were getting married any time soon. But Narcissa loved to recount her wedding day as a story of love, and even Lucius would indulge her, her smile soft and sweet as he danced her around the room. Even with the toxic ideology and the strict rules within the Manor, they had adored each other, and Draco had loved to see them so happy and in love as they had been the day they must have met each other.

Without thinking about it, his eyes drifted to the side where Hermione was sitting. She looked as dazzling as she had been during the night of the Yule Ball several years prior. Her lavender dress fit her very well, and her normally bushy hair had been tamed and sleeked, no doubt thanks to the Sleek-Eezy Potion Shampoo, with a few curled strands framing her face. Her eyes were already a bit watery, watching the ceremony with a happy smile, and suddenly, Draco had to wonder what she would look like as a bride. 

He wondered what she might look like...as  _ his  _ bride.

_ No _ , he thought to himself, blinking a few times.  _ We’re barely seventeen. We’re in the middle of a war. Now isn’t the time to think about a possible future, we need to try and focus on surviving day by day until bloody Voldemort is taken care of once and for all. _

But his mind couldn’t help but picture her already, dressed in white, with maybe a few Black or Malfoy heirloomed jewelry on her person. Just thinking about it made a small lump fill his throat, and he had to swallow a few times to force it down, before taking Hermione’s hand out of instinct, giving her fingers a squeeze, and feeling a bit calmer when she squeezed back.

“Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle...?” 

In the front row, Mrs. Weasley and Madame Delacour were both sobbing quietly into scraps of lace. Trumpet-like sounds from the back of the marquee indicated that Hagrid had taken out one of his own tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione could not stop beaming; her eyes, too, were full of tears. 

“...then I declare you bonded for life.” The tufty-haired wizard waved his wand high over the heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars fell upon them, spiraling around their now entwined figures; the bloomed flowers on the archway trembled, and the doves burst free, swirling into the air and out of the tent with lovely quiet cooing. “Ladies and gentlemen!” called the tufty-haired wizard. “If you would please stand up!”

They all did so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; the officiant waved his wand again. The seats on which they had been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the canvas walls of the marquee vanished, so that they stood beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a glorious view of the sunlit orchard and surrounding countryside. 

Next, a pool of molten gold spread from the center of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering chairs grouped themselves around small, white-clothed tables, which all floated gracefully back to earth around it, and the golden-jacketed band trooped toward a podium. 

“Smooth,” Ron said approvingly, joining them as the waiters popped up on all sides, some bearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, butterbeer, and firewhisky, others tottering piles of tarts and sandwiches. 

“We should go and congratulate them!” Hermione said eagerly, standing on tiptoe to peer towards the spot where Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers. 

“We’ll have time later,” Ron assured her, snatching three butterbeers from a passing tray and handing them out. “Hermione, c’mon, let’s grab a table....not over there! Nowhere near Muriel—” Ron led the way across the empty dance floor, glancing left and right as he went to make sure he didn’t direct them near any hazardous relatives. By the time they had reached the other side of the marquee, most of the tables were occupied: The emptiest was the one where Luna sat alone.

Pansy and Theo found them there, and they all sat down together with their drinks, watching the reception get started properly.

Eventually Ginny took Luna’s hand and led her to the golden floor to dance, more whimsically than romantic. Watching them twirling together, Draco smiled; after all the time he had spent with them, from the DA meetings to protecting one another to the past few months, he knew both girls enough to appreciate the glow of love and contentment that they radiated together.

Draco had expected Ron to draw his courage and ask Pansy to dance, but instead he offered his hand to Hermione; she smiled faintly, giving Draco a bemused glance as she followed Ron onto the floor.

He managed to handle that happening for two songs, then caved, nudging Pansy. “Can you distract your boyfriend?” Draco asked wryly, making her snort and flip him off. “Please--I’ll owe you one.”

“No, you won’t,” she laughed, rising leaving her purse at the table. “You think I don’t want to dance with that idiot?” Crossing the floor to cut in, she lured Ron away, and Draco laughed despite himself as Pansy promptly took the lead, guiding a visibly starstruck Ron into the next dance. 

Hermione just grinned and headed back towards the table, then stopped, eyes widening as Draco rose and offered her his hand. She blushed--his favorite blush, the one that he knew was just for him, because of him--and let him take her hand. 

As he twirled her just as expertly as he had during Slughorn’s Christmas party, Draco couldn’t help catching sight of Krum sitting among the guests. Despite the Veela women clearly vying for his attention, he was watching Hermione. But she was gazing at Draco as if he was the only other person at the wedding, enraptured and smiling so beautifully, and Draco couldn’t say that he felt all that sorry for Krum.

After a few dances, Ginny had managed to get the majority of the teenagers into more of a group dance; Draco let Hermione go, laughing, and he retreated back to their table to catch his breath. Neither Ron nor Theo managed to escape, and Draco snorted into his champagne as he watched them get buried in the dog pile of movement.

He startled when someone dropped into Luna’s vacant seat, and blinked rapidly when he found Krum sitting there beside him, looking like he had come to talk. Draco braced himself for something to do with Hermione, and the obvious intimacy between them when they had danced--but Krum surprised him again. With a scowl on his face, he asked, “Who is that man in the yellow?”

Following his nod, Draco raised his eyebrows in confusion. “That’s Xenophilius Lovegood, he’s the father of a friend of ours,” he replied. He said it politely enough, though his tone was underlined with the clear indication that Krum was not welcome to laugh at Xenophilius, despite the clear provocation. “Why, what’s the problem?”

Krum glowered over the top of his drink, watching Xenophilius, who was chatting to several warlocks on the other side of the dance floor. “Vell,” he replied, “If he vos not a guest of Fleur’s, I vould duel him, here and now, for vearing that filthy sign upon his chest.” 

“‘Sign?’” Draco echoed, looking over at Xenophilius again. The strange triangular eye was gleaming on his chest. “Why, what’s wrong with it? What does it mean?” 

“Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald’s sign.” 

Draco stilled, his eyes widening. “Grindelwald...Gellert Grindelwald? The Dark wizard Albus Dumbledore defeated decades ago?” 

“Exactly.” Krum’s jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing, then he said, “Grindelvald killed many people, my grandfather, for instance. Of course, he vos never quite as poverful in this country, they said he feared Dumbledore—and rightly, seeing how he vos finished. But this—” he pointed a finger at Xenophilius. “—this is his symbol, I recognized it at vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vall at Durmstrang ven he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it onto their books and clothes, thinking to shock, make themselves impressive—until those of us who had lost family members to Grindelvald taught them better.” Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly, and continued glowering at Xenophilius. 

Draco was frankly bewildered. It seemed incredibly unlikely that Luna’s father was a supporter of the Dark Arts, and nobody else in the tent seemed to have recognized the triangular, runelike shape. “Are you—ah—quite sure it’s Grindelwald’s— ?” he began tentatively, but Krum cut him off, his voice cold.

“I am not mistaken,” he said shortly. “I valked past that sign for several years, I know it vell.” 

“Well, there’s a chance,” Draco continued to try and calm him, “that Xenophilius doesn’t actually know what the symbol means. The Lovegoods are quite...unusual. He could easily have picked it up somewhere and think it’s a cross section of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or something.”

“The cross section of a vot?”

“They’ve never fully explained that to me--but apparently he and his daughter go on holiday looking for them....that’s her,” he added, pointing at Luna, who was still dancing alone, waving her arms around her head like someone attempting to beat off midges. “That’s Luna. She’s going to be a sixth year at Hogwarts.”

“Vy is she doing that?” Krum asked, blinking at her sporadic arm movements. 

“Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt,” Draco shrugged; it made as much sense as any other default-Luna response. Krum looked utterly perplexed, as if unsure if he was being mocked. He turned his attention to the people still dancing--but before Draco could grow wary that he was going to attempt to extricate Hermione from the group, one of the Veela ladies approached and invited him to dance. To Draco’s infinite relief, Krum accepted.

As the evening wore on, and moths began to swoop under the canopy now that it was lit with floating golden lanterns, the revelry became more and more uncontained. Fred and George had long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair of Fleur’s cousins; Charlie, Hagrid, and a squat wizard in a purple porkpie hat were singing “Odo the Hero '' in a corner.

Wandering through the crowd so as to escape a drunken uncle of Ron’s who seemed unsure whether or not Draco was his son, he eventually spotted an old wizard sitting alone at a table. His cloud of white hair made him look rather like an aged dandelion, and was topped by a moth-eaten fez. He was vaguely familiar; racking his brains, Draco suddenly realized that this was Elphias Doge, a member of the Order of the Phoenix and the writer of Dumbledore’s obituary. His photograph had been published alongside the testimony that he had written for the late Headmaster.

Draco approached him slowly, not wanting to startle the older wizard. “Excuse me--Mr. Doge? May I sit down?” 

“Of course, of course,dear boy,” said Doge; he had a rather high-pitched, wheezy voice. “Love wedding, isn’t it...are you a relative of the family?”

“Distant cousin,” Draco confirmed. “Mr. Doge, I read the obituary that you wrote for the Daily Prophet.” He smiled a little, not wanting to grieve Doge. “I didn’t realize you knew Professor Dumbledore so well.” 

“As well as anyone,” Doge replied, dabbing at his eyes with a napkin; maybe it was the champagne, but Draco had a feeling that there would be no avoiding making Doge emotional discussing Dumbledore. The adoration in his obituary had been apparent enough in every word. “Certainly I knew him longest, if you don’t count Aberforth—and somehow, people never do seem to count Aberforth.” 

“Yes--well, speaking of the _Daily Prophet_...I don’t know whether you saw, Mr. Doge— ?” 

“Oh, please call me Elphias, dear boy. Anyone linked to the Weasleys is a friend to me.” 

“Elphias.” Draco had been raised with the thorough understanding that he addressed his elders formally, so it felt alien on his tongue, but he’d also been firmly taught to respect his elders’ requests in such matters. “I don’t know whether you saw the interview Rita Skeeter gave about Dumbledore?”

Considering Skeeter’s history of malignant writing--and often blatant bullshit--Draco had barely paid mind when he’d seen her byline in the Prophet, more interested in reading Doge’s piece, and in confirming that another day passed with nothing important being reported about the ongoing war. But Hermione had showed it to him and Ron later, utterly disgusted by Skeeter’s sheer gall; she had ripped into Dumbledore’s history, and had done her damnedest to paint him as a dark and twisted man with terrible secrets, nothing at all like the man who Draco remembered.

Doge’s face flooded with angry color. “Oh yes, my boy, I saw it. That woman--or vulture might be a more accurate term--positively pestered me to talk to her. I am ashamed to say that I became rather rude, calling her an interfering trout, which resulted, as you may have seen, in aspersions cast upon my sanity in her nonsensical piece.”

“Well, in the interview,” Draco went on, “Skeeter hinted that Professor Dumbledore was involved in the Dark Arts when he was young.” 

“Don’t you believe a word of it!” Doge said at once, vehement. “Not a word, lad! Let nothing tarnish your memories of Albus Dumbledore!” 

Draco looked into Doge’s earnest, pained face and felt rather sorry for having brought up this distressing topic--but he wanted answers,  _ needed _ information, and if Doge had truly known Dumbledore for most of his life, that made him a promising potential source. “Well, I appreciate you talking to me, Mr. Do--Elphius, even if it involved Rita Skeeter--”

He jumped a little when he was interrupted by a shrill cackle. “Rita Skeeter? Oh, I love her, always read her!” Draco and Doge both looked up to see Ron’s Aunt Muriel standing there, the plumes dancing on her hat, a goblet of champagne in her hand. “She’s written a book about Dumbledore, you know!” 

“Hello, Muriel,” Doge said irritably. “Yes, we were just discussing—” 

“You there! Give me your chair, I’m a hundred and seven!” Another red-haired Weasley cousin jumped off his seat, looking alarmed, and Muriel swung it around with surprising strength and plopped herself down upon it between Doge and Draco. 

“Hello you--I presume you’re some great-great nephew of mine, or something,” she said to Draco in greeting. “Now, what were you saying about Rita Skeeter, Elphias? You know she’s written a biography of Dumbledore? I can’t wait to read it, I must remember to place an order at Flourish and Blotts!” 

Doge looked stiff and solemn at this, but Muriel drained her goblet and clicked her bony fingers at a passing waiter for a replacement. She took another large gulp of champagne, belched, and then said, “There’s no need to look like a pair of stuffed frogs! Before he became so respected and respectable and all that tosh, there were some mighty funny rumors about Albus!” 

“Ill-informed sniping,” Doge retorted, turning radish-colored again. Draco was vaguely concerned that the older wizard’s health was at risk with how discolored he became in his agitation over the unpleasant topic.

“You would say that, Elphias,” Muriel cackled at once. “I noticed how you skated over the sticky patches in that obituary of yours!” 

“I’m sorry you think so,” Doge said, more coldly still. “I assure you I was writing from the heart.” 

“Oh, we all know you worshipped Dumbledore; I daresay you’ll still think he was a saint even if it does turn out that he did away with his Squib sister!” 

“Muriel!” Doge exclaimed in horror. A chill that had nothing to do with iced champagne stole through Draco’s chest. 

“What do you mean?” he asked Muriel. “What makes you think that his sister was a Squib? I read that she was ill--and she died quite young, didn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, she was ill--with the disease of lacking any magic to make her of value to her family!” Muriel crowed, looking positively delighted at the effect she had produced. “Anyway, you wouldn’t be expected to know much about it--it all happened years and years before you were even thought of, my dear, and the truth is that those of us who were alive then never knew what really happened. That’s why I can’t wait to find out what Skeeter’s unearthed! Dumbledore kept that sister of his quiet for a long time!”

“Untrue!” Doge wheezed, looking close to weeping. “All of it, absolutely untrue! The reason Albus never spoke about Ariana,” he asserted, his voice stiff with emotion, “Is, I should have thought, quite clear. He was so devastated by her death—” 

“Why did nobody ever see her, Elphias?” Muriel squawked back at him. “Why did half of us never even know she existed, until they carried the coffin out of the house and held a funeral for her? Where was saintly Albus while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being brilliant at Hogwarts, and never mind what was going on in his own house!” 

“What--locked in the cellar?” Draco repeated, staring at the old witch in shock. “What in Merlin’s name do you mean?”

Doge looked wretched. Muriel cackled again and answered Draco. “Dumbledore’s mother was a terrifying woman, simply terrifying. Muggleborn, though I heard she pretended otherwise—” 

“She never pretended anything of the sort! Kendra was a fine woman,” Doge whispered miserably, but Muriel ignored him happily. 

“—proud and very domineering, the sort of witch who would have been mortified to produce a Squib—” 

“Ariana was not a Squib!” Doge squealed, actually visibly shaking with rage now. 

“So you say, Elphias, but explain, then, why she never attended Hogwarts!” Muriel shot back. She refocused on Draco. “In our day, Squibs were often hushed up, though to take it to the extreme of actually imprisoning a little girl in the house and pretending she didn’t exist—” 

“I tell you, that’s not what happened!” Doge cried, but Muriel steamrollered on, still addressing only Draco. “Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools and encouraged to integrate into the Muggle community...much kinder than trying to find them a place in the Wizarding world, where they must always be second class; but naturally Kendra Dumbledore wouldn’t have dreamed of letting her daughter go to a Muggle school—” 

“Ariana was delicate!” Doge said desperately. “Her health was always too poor to permit her—” 

“—to permit her to leave the house?” Muriel crowed. “And yet she was never taken to St. Mungo’s and no Healer was ever summoned to see her!” 

“Really, Muriel, how you can possibly know whether—” 

“For your information, Elphias, my cousin Lancelot was a Healer at St. Mungo’s at the time, and he told my family in strictest confidence that Ariana had never been seen there. All most suspicious, Lancelot thought!” 

Doge now did have legitimate tears in his eyes, and Draco had the impulse to intervene--if only to try and move his conversation with Muriel away from the distraught wizard. But Muriel, who seemed to be enjoying herself hugely, snapped her fingers for more champagne and settled into her chair, clearly not intending to budge. “Now, if Kendra hadn’t died first,” Muriel resumed, “I’d have said that it was she who finished off Ariana—” 

“How can you, Muriel?” Doge groaned. “A mother kill her own daughter? Think about what you are saying!” 

“If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning her daughter for years on end, then why on earth not?” Muriel shrugged. “But as I say, it doesn’t fit, because Kendra died before Ariana—of what, nobody ever seemed sure—” 

“Oh, no doubt Ariana murdered her,” Doge scoffed, in a brave attempt at scorn. “Why not?” 

“Yes, Ariana might have made a desperate bid for freedom and killed Kendra in the struggle,” Muriel said thoughtfully. “Shake your head all you like, Elphias! You were at Ariana’s funeral, were you not?” 

“Yes I was,” Doge replied, his voice trembling. “And a more desperately sad occasion I cannot remember. Albus was heartbroken—” 

“His heart wasn’t the only thing. Didn’t Aberforth break Albus’s nose halfway through the service?” If Doge had looked horrified before this, it was nothing to how he looked now. Muriel might have stabbed him. She cackled loudly and took another swig of champagne, which dribbled down her chin. 

“How do you even— ?” Doge croaked. 

“My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot,” Muriel cut him off happily. “Bathilda described the whole thing to Mother while I was listening at the door. A coffin-side brawl! The way Bathilda told it, Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus’s fault that Ariana was dead and then punched him in the face. According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend himself, and that’s odd enough in itself, Albus could have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands tied behind his back.” 

Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of these old scandals seemed to elate her as much as they horrified Doge. Draco did not know what to think, what to believe; he had wanted the truth, and yet all Doge did was sit there and continue bleating feebly that Ariana had only been ill. Draco could hardly believe that Dumbledore would not have intervened if such cruelty was happening inside his own house, and yet there was undoubtedly something odd about the story. 

But Draco could not help also thinking--Dumbledore had been, above all else, just a man. He would have made mistakes, and Draco had no doubt that he would have labored to make up for them. He couldn’t help thinking that he’d forgive Dumbledore if any of Muriel’s claims were founded in truth--after all, Dumbledore had still been a good man at heart, one of the best Draco ever knew. His past shouldn't matter; who he had been at his core should be how he was remembered.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” Muriel added, hiccuping slightly as she lowered her goblet. “I think Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All those hints in Skeeter’s interview about an important source close to the Dumbledores—goodness knows she was there all through the Ariana business, and it would fit!” 

“Bathilda would never talk to Rita Skeeter!” Doge whispered, aghast. “She was a fierce friend--loyal to the core--she would never betray their private affairs to that  _ carrion bird _ in such an atrocious manner--” 

“Bathilda Bagshot?” Draco asked, connecting the dots on the name. “The author of  _ A History of Magic?”  _ The name was printed on the front of one of his first-ever textbooks, one that had remained relevant to coursework throughout the years. Draco imagined that he and Hermione could compete over who had more passages from it memorized, though he suspected she would win that one easily. He’d already been familiar with the wizarding school’s history, after all, long before he needed Bagshot’s book for schoolwork. 

“Yes,” Doge said at once, clutching at Draco’s clarifying question like a drowning man at a life belt. “A most gifted magical historian, and a lifelong friend of Albus’s. She would never--” 

“Quite gaga these days, I’ve heard,” Muriel interrupted him cheerfully, giggling into her champagne.

“If that is so, it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter to have taken advantage of her,” Doge said aggressively, “and no reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have said!”

“Oh, there are ways of bringing back memories, and I’m sure Rita Skeeter knows them all,” Muriel said dismissively. “But even if Bathilda’s completely cuckoo, I’m sure she’d still have old photographs, maybe even letters. She knew the Dumbledores for years....well worth a trip to Godric’s Hollow, I’d have thought.” 

Draco, who had been taking a sip of his champagne just for something to do with his hands, choked on the bubbly beverage. Doge banged him on the back as Draco coughed, looking at Muriel through streaming eyes.

Once he had control of his voice again, he asked, “Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric’s Hollow?” 

“Oh yes, she’s been there forever! The Dumbledores moved there after Percival was imprisoned, and she was their neighbor.” 

“The Dumbledores--they lived in Godric’s Hollow, too?” Draco didn’t know if this was actually important information or not, but it felt far too weighty to be coincidental. Had Voldemort known--had it somehow, bizarrely, factored into his actions against the Potters that night?

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” Muriel said testily, before she clicked her fingers for yet more champagne.

Doge scowled, clearly at the end of his rope. “I do apologize, dear boy--I cannot stand to sit still and listen to this absolute garbage--such  _ nonsense-- _ a moment longer,” he said huffily, rising and giving Muriel a scathing look before storming away from the table. Muriel merely huffed, and then hiccuped, giving Draco a look before she seemed to recall that she didn’t really know who he was, and she rose as well, tottering away with her glass precariously in her hand.

Draco sat still, staring ahead blankly, barely noticing what was going on around him. He did not realize that Hermione had appeared out of the crowd until she drew up a chair beside him, dropping down beside him. 

“I simply can’t dance anymore,” she panted, slipping off one of her shoes and rubbing the sole of her foot. “Ron’s gone looking to find us some butterbeers. It’s a bit odd, I’ve just seen Viktor storming away from Luna’s father, it looked like they’d been arguing—” She paused, then dropped her voice, staring at him. “Draco--are you okay?” 

Draco did not know where to begin--but it didn’t matter. At that moment, something large and silver came falling through the canopy over the dance floor. Graceful and gleaing, the lynx landed lightly in the middle of the astonished dancers. Heads turned, as those nearest it froze absurdly in mid-dance. Then the Patronus’s mouth opened wide and it spoke in the loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

_ “The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”  _

There was a pause that may have been only ten or so seconds, but it felt as if it stretched into hours. And then, panic broke out across the crowded wedding marquee.

People screamed, and everyone began running in different directions. The air was suddenly filled with whooshes of air, and Draco gasped as he realized that people were Dissaparating on the spot--the protection spells were gone from the Burrow. Without conscious thought, he grabbed Hermione's hand, and the unyielding return grip of her fingers around his cut through the white noise that had begun roaring in his ears.

“We have to find Ron--we have to get Ron and  _ leave _ ,” she whispered, desperation and grief coloring her voice. Draco nodded, and they stumbled out of the way of the fleeing guests, scanning wildly for Ron’s familiar tall figure.

“There--” Spotting the ginger near the house, Draco felt his heart constrict in sympathy. Ron was pushing a weeping Pansy towards Theo, while she resisted valiantly. But Theo reached for her and seized her hand, and he Disapparated them away; Ron had broken free from her hold on his arm just in time. He turned back and saw Draco and Hermione; he didn’t even seem to be aware of the tears on his own face as he began running to meet them.

There were more cracking noises--Apparating, dark figures in long robes and masks materializing around them, and Draco’s heart iced over as he realized that Death Eaters were invading the Burrow.

Together they rushed towards Ron, and then stumbled as Sirius suddenly appeared in the remaining space between the three of them. His disguise was wearing off, his handsome features and long dark hair beginning to return as he threw one hand out in each direction, offering a connection--

The instant that Draco and Ron both grasped his offered hands, Sirius Disapparated, carrying the teenagers with him.

When they landed there was some staggering and gasping, and Draco became aware that wherever they were was substantially more quiet than the destroyed wedding scene they had just fled. He looked around, wheezing, trying to place if he even remotely recognized the darkened road--it appeared to be in London, a neighborhood?--upon which they stood.

“Oh,” Hermione gasped, catching her breath as well. “Sirius, that’s--brilliant, good idea. I hadn’t even thought of Grimmauld Place--but is it safe for us? D-didn’t Snape--”

Sirius just nodded, striding forward; Draco startled as the presence of a Secret Keeper caused the townhouses they were facing to ripple and shift. Numbers eleven and thirteen slowly eased apart, revealing another of the uniform, dark-brick-built homes, this one bearing the iron number twelve--and a very familiar coat of arms above its doorway.

“The Black family was willing to live in a Muggle area?” Draco asked curiously, following Ron and Hermione as they trailed up the stone steps after Sirius.

“The Blacks had the land first,” his cousin said dryly, unlocking the heavy black door and letting the three of them in before reaching out to make them pause. “And yes, Hermione--Remus and I have been hard work, implementing new protection spells. No idea if  _ they _ know I’m still alive or not, but no matter--this was Order headquarters, and they can’t be that surprised that we’d work to keep them out of it. Hold on...”

As soon as Sirius closed the door behind them, the old-fashioned gas lamps sprang into life, casting flickering light along the length of the hallway. Draco wrinkled his nose at the state of the hallway before them; it was eerie, cobwebbed, the outlines of mounted house elf heads on the wall throwing odd shadows up the staircase. 

That was  _ one _ archaic pureblood tradition that Draco was infinitely glad that his own parents had not continued, in the halls of Malfoy Manor.

“Hold still,” Sirius said in a tired voice, and he took a step forward. 

_ “Severus Snape?”  _ A deep, ominous voice whispered out of the darkness, making the three teenagers jump back in shock. Something shifted in the shadows at the end of the hall, and before any of them could say another word, a figure had risen up out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored, and terrible: Hermione screamed and so did Mrs. Black in her portrait, her curtains flying open. The gray figure was gliding toward them, faster and faster, its waist-length hair and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken, fleshless, with empty eye sockets: Horribly familiar, dreadfully altered, it raised a wasted arm, pointing at Sirius. 

“No, Albus,” Despite the utter horror of the phantom flying towards him, Sirius sounded exhausted and sad, not afraid. “It was not us who killed you—” 

On the word  _ kill,  _ the figure exploded in a great cloud of dust. Coughing, his eyes watering, Draco looked around to see Hermione crouched on the floor by the door with her arms over her head, and Ron, who was shaking from head to foot, patting her clumsily on the shoulder and saying, “It’s all r-right...it’s g-gone....” 

Dust swirled around Draco like mist, catching the blue gaslight, and Mrs. Black’s portrait continued to scream.  _ “Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on the house of my fathers—”  _

“We had to implement defenses like that,” Sirius called to them in explanation, seemingly unconcerned by his mother’s shrieks. “Just in case Snape was forced to return with Death Eaters. There’s also a tongue-binding curse that will hinder intruders who don’t know the phrase for the dust trap. They’d be forced back out of the house, and unable to describe its location or the spells defending it.”

He waved his wand, cutting off his mother’s continued cursing, then looked over at Draco with a wry smirk. “Cousin of mine, may I have the great displeasure of introducing you to your aunt Walburga?” Sirius asked teasingly, and Draco started as he stepped forward, taking in the painted visage of a woman who absolutely bore trademark traits of the ancient and noble house of Black.

She stopped muttering under her breath at the sight of him, looking momentarily shocked and delighted, presumably at seeing one of the Malfoy extensions of the Black family. And then she appeared to connect the dots on why he was there at all, standing among the “blood traitors” staining her hallway, and Walburga seemed to lose her mind again.

_ “Is nothing sacred in this family?”  _ she screamed, her beady eyes bulging with rage.  _ “What would your mother think, boy? Narcissa was a good girl, very respectable, she would have taught you better--” _

“Oh, shut up, you old hag,” Draco drawled, cutting her off as effectively as if he had hexed her; she clearly had not expected a youth of her bloodline to speak rudely to her. “It’s not my fault you were born without a heart; no wonder you dropped dead so suddenly.” Walburga, for the first time, fell completely silent, gaping at him in shock before Sirius pulled the curtains over her portrait again.

“Good lad,” he said with a smirk, then gestured to lead the teens into the kitchen after him. Entering the large room, Hermione set her small beaded bag on the kitchen table, then began digging far deeper into it than seemed entirely plausible. The boys watched, gaping, as she began producing changes of clothing for the three of them.

“I’ve also got the Cloak, don’t worry,” she said distractedly to Draco, laying out jeans and shirts and then digging deeper and producing their usual shoes, to replace the stiff-soled wedding shoes.

“How the ruddy hell— ?” Ron started sputtering, picking up the clothing she’d placed in front of him and staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Draco was less shell-shocked, but he couldn’t deny that he was deeply impressed.

“Undetectable Extension Charm,” Hermione explained, finally pulling out her own change of clothes. “Tricky, but I think I’ve done it okay; anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here...” She gave the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around inside it. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books,” she said, peering into it. “And I had them all stacked by subject....oh well....” 

“When did you do all this?” Draco asked in amusement, as he and Ron both took their items and began heading for the nearest bathroom. 

“I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed all of our rucksacks this morning, after you’d both changed, and put it in here....I just had a feeling....” 

“You’re amazing, you are,” Ron told her with a smile, before he and Draco went to dress. Once they were finished, Hermione took her turn, and she rejoined the three men once she was back in jeans and a sweater, sinking down to sit at the kitchen table as Sirius went to start some tea for them all. 

Ron broke the quiet first. “Could we...couldn’t we maybe go to the Leaky Cauldron? Just to hear what’s going on, keep an ear to the ground?”

“Too risky,” Hermione said heavily, smiling weakly at Sirius as she accepted a mug of steaming tea. “Besides, we already know enough. The Ministry’s been taken over. All of our friends and family who work there will have to go into hiding.” She inhaled shakily. “The best that we can do...is to try and contact the Order when we can. Discreetly, of course.”

“She’s right,” Sirius agreed softly, joining them at the table. “Not to mention, you and Ron will be too easily recognizable as enemies of the Ministry, and former friends of Harry Potter. The prices on your heads will be significantly higher than anyone else that I know of, not counting the Order.”

Draco set down his tea mug, and it was just in time; his arm suddenly surged with a stinging, burning pain, and he jerked slightly and looked down at it as if he would see the Dark Mark visibly glowing right through his shirt sleeve.

He’d never felt it ache in that specific manner before--and yet, without a shadow of a doubt, Draco knew that somewhere, Voldemort was absolutely  _ furious _ . Whether it was that he hadn’t ordered the attack on the Burrow and was therefore enraged at his followers’ actions, or that he’d been after something or someone specific there and hadn’t gotten it...what was clear in Draco’s mind was that the Dark Lord was very, very angry.

Sirius put together a simple dinner of soup and bread. The group ate quietly, worry keeping their spirits subdued.

As Hermione rose to send the dishes flying to the sink and charm the water and scrub brushes to handle clean-up, however, Ron gave a started gasp of relief. Through the wall soared a gleaming silver weasel, and it landed on the dining table, sitting up tall and speaking with Arthur’s voice. “Family safe. Do not reply. We are being watched.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Hermione sighed, coming back to sit down. Beneath the table, she took Draco’s hand tightly, and he gave her a weak smile, nodding in agreement at the sentiment as Ron sagged onto the tabletop, clearly overwhelmed at knowing that his family was alright.

“The, uh, the bedrooms that you used two summers are are free,” Sirius told them, looking equal parts comforted and drained, now that that fear had been settled. “If you want to just use them again--”

“Thank you,” Hermione said softly, cutting him off. “But I really need to keep these two in my line of sight. I don’t think I could sleep a wink otherwise.”

Sirius’ face softened, and Draco had the fleeting thought that he’d be willing to bet good money that Sirius had wanted to stay at the Potters’ house nonstop, when they’d first been marked for death years ago. From the stories of his and Remus’ younger days, Draco had no doubt that the Marauders had shared the same level of inseparability and devotion that he had with the innermost circle of Dumbledore’s Army.

“Of course,” Sirius said kindly. “Come on, I’ve the perfect room. Plenty of space for three to kip.” He led the trio up the stairs, showing them the largest bathroom on the next landing, and then opening the door to a cozy-sized drawing room adjacent to it. It had a good, large fireplace, and Sirius got a fire burning and then enchanted it so that it wouldn’t die overnight, or overheat the teenagers.

“Bedding,” he began, but Hermione just smiled sheepishly and began pulling sleeping bags out of her handbag, making the three men laugh at her forethought.

Sirius excused himself to climb the next staircase to his own room, and Draco, Ron, and Hermione began preparing for bed. They changed into their night clothes and brushed their teeth, then arranged the sleeping bags in a line before the fire, soothed by the warmth and the dancing flames. Hermione placed her bag between the boys’, and neither of them commented, knowing that she needed the security. As a final touch for added comfort, they placed couch cushions on the floor beneath the sleeping bags to soften the impact of the dark wood.

As they all climbed into their bags and settled in to sleep, Hermione reached out across the scant inches between them and found Draco’s hand without a word. 

He held her fingers tightly, squeezing to reassure her that he was right there, and that they were going to be alright. In the flickering firelight, Hermione’s expression smoothed into calm, and she was smiling as she finally closed her eyes.


	30. Ghostly Figures on the Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They had summoned the elf for information, in order to learn more about their missing Horcrux and what had become of it. But it seemed that they’d also stumbled onto closure for multiple people, and multiple causes of pain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, lovelies!

When Draco slowly awoke, it was to the sounds of the fire crackling softly in the fireplace, and to Ron and Hermione’s deep breathing, indicating that they were still asleep. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains of the drawing room, the cool, clear blue color of watered-down ink, somewhere between night and dawn. Beside him, Hermione’s hand was curved towards his, their fingers just barely touching.

Watching her sleeping in the dim lighting for a few moments, Draco could allow himself to feel somewhat content. She was safe, for the time being, and in sleep she looked younger, free of worries, appearing closer to her actual young age than she usually did. Reaching up gently, he pushed some of her hair out of her face and behind her ear, causing her to stir slightly, a small smile spreading over her face, and it made his heart squeeze, wondering if she was dreaming of him.

After a few moments, Draco finally rolled over and out of the sleeping bag, picking up his wand from beneath his pillow, creeping out of the drawing room and grabbing some clean clothes along the way. Once the doors were shut behind him, he gave his wand a flick, and it illuminated at the tip, allowing him to find his way to the bathroom to freshen up and dress.

It felt so...odd now, that he was thinking about it, filling the sink with cool water and splashing his face. Only just yesterday they had been at a wedding, with Draco and Ron showing each guest to their seats, and watching Hermione walk around in her pretty dress. Everyone had been in such high spirits; one small bright spot during a war so ugly. 

And that happiness had been ripped away so quickly with the Death Eaters’ attack.

What had they been after, he wondered? No one outside of the Order knew that he was alive. Perhaps they had gone there to try and intimidate the Weasleys into compliance with their new order. The family had been labeled as blood traitors for almost a century now; with a Voldemort-controlled Ministry, that meant they were a direct threat. The sooner they were silenced or cowed, the better for the Death Eaters to do their job, and it just made him smirk a little, thinking of Molly Weasley and the fierceness she held despite her motherly appearance.

No one could make the Weasleys obey an archaic ideology. They’d keep fighting, even if they had to be a little more quiet about it from now on.

Letting his mind wander further as he slipped out of the bathroom, Draco found himself thinking of Dumbledore, and Voldemort, and the Horcruxes again. They really needed to get a move on now in finding them. The faster he figured out where to look for the Horcruxes, the sooner they could stop this mess...and the sooner they could begin to rebuild after all that Voldemort had taken from them.

“Now if only I could figure out what the bloody hell we’re going to do next,” he mumbled to himself.

Wandering down the hallways, he passed Sirius’ room, the door clearly labeled with its owner’s name. It was standing ajar; inside, he could see his cousin was fast asleep, snoring away in a mess of blankets.

The walls were plastered from floor to ceiling with old Gryffindor memorabilia, and various old moving photographs, no doubt of his school days and his friends. The one closest to the door was on the nightstand, showing a younger, happier Sirius arm in arm with a younger Remus. On their other sides, no doubt, were James Potter and treacherous little Peter Pettigrew.

Just boys, with none of them knowing what was in store for them in the future; one dead, one suffering in Azkaban for twelve years, and one living the high life as a traitor, playing a major role in the deaths of an entire innocent family.

Curiosity struck him then, as Draco realized that this truly was the first time he had ever been in the estate of one of the Black branches of his family. Quietly, he crept through the house, taking in the details from the light of his wand. Everything was so...gloomy, and depressing. Regal and important, but with a little too much influence from gothic architecture. The heads of the dead house elves from the past generations just made his stomach knot uncomfortably, and he could see spiderwebs criss-crossing the various ornate chandeliers.

As he passed a few rooms, he heard the sound of mice scurrying in the walls, disturbed by the sound of his footsteps after Merlin-knew-how-many years of silence. 

One room he peeked into seemed to have been a guest room; it held several beds and two wardrobes, while a large window on one wall overlooked the Muggle street. The lamps outside were still dimly lit, as the sun was beginning to ever so slowly creep over the horizon; as Draco stepped inside, he could see it hadn’t been used in quite some time.

“Now, what do we have here?”

The voice made him jump, whirling with his wand raised only to find himself facing a portrait of a man with a silver beard, and piercing grey eyes. His clothing was clearly outdated, from the mid-1800s at the very least, and he eyed the teenager with cool indifference. The plaque at the bottom of the thickly-decorated black frame read  _ Phineas Nigellus Black. _

“Wait,” Draco said, blinking. “I know you. You’re one of the old headmasters of Hogwarts. Your portrait is in the Headmaster’s office, isn’t it?”

“An observant one, aren’t you?” Phineas smirked slightly. “And I know all about you, little Malfoy. You’re one of my many great-nephews--the one that Dumbledore prepared to fight the Dark Lord.” He sniffed a little, looking a bit unimpressed now. “Seems a bit foolish to send a teenager to fight someone like that man. And a Slytherin at that! Our greatest strength was our self-preservation. You’d do well to try to get out of this mess while you still can.”

Draco frowned. “That’s cowardly. I’m not going to be a coward.”

“Protecting your own neck ensures your own survival,” Phineas replied. “I see nothing cowardly about that.”

“I have people that need protecting,” Draco retorted. “And if I have the means to do it, then I’d be a bigger fool to waste those tools, or my duty to use them. Slytherins can be brave, too.”

“Brave, yes. But never this foolish.” The old wizard tilted his head for a moment, examining the teenager like he wasn’t sure how to react to him now. “Maybe you should have been a Gryffindor, like my other...’unconventional’ nephew.”

“And look like a washed-out mess in that scarlet-and-gold color scheme? No, thank you. I’ll bleed green and silver until the day I die.” Draco’s brow furrowed. “Wait, how are you here, if your portrait is at Hogwarts?”

“I had two portraits done,” Phineas said, “And I can move between them whenever I’d like. I want to keep an eye on my old home and descendants, you know. Make sure they’re upholding our family values.”

_ “Torjus pur,”  _ Draco recited, and Phineas smiled a bit sardonically. “‘Always pure.’ I think it’s a bit of a stupid family value, and more stupid that you’d make it the official motto.”

“Oh? And just what is the Malfoy family motto then? Why, I’d garner it’s almost the exact same as our own, is it not?”

Draco grit his teeth a little, feeling a flare of anger rising in his chest.  _ “Sanctimonia Vincet Semper,”  _ he muttered. “‘Purity will always conquer’. It’s equally wrong; we both know that no pureblood family is entirely pure. There are secret Squibs in the family tree somewhere.”

“Not in the Blacks,” Phineas said, puffing his chest out. “And no Mudbloods being added either--”

“Don’t say that word,” Draco shot back. “That’s an ugly word.”

“Why am I not surprised that you ended up a blood traitor too?” Phineas sighed as if put upon. “There always seems to be one or two in the family tree. Such a shame; back when I was alive, we drilled the values deeper into our offspring’s head, and they were grateful for it.”

“Oh yeah, inbreeding with our own cousins  _ really  _ helps,” Draco said sarcastically. “I’m done with this conversation now. You’re boring me.” With that, he left the room, leaving the portrait to sputter slightly with indignation, and he shut the door before Phineas could say anything else to make him any angrier.

Heading up the stairs to put some distance between himself and that room, he ended up in front of a door with another pompous silver sign attached to the somewhat dusty and scratched wood. Stepping closer and shining his wand closer to it, Draco could read the words engraved within the silver:

_ Do Not Enter _ _   
_ _ Without the Express Permission of _ _   
_ __ Regulus Arcturus Black

Draco stared at the sign for a long moment, brows furrowing as his mind latched onto what he was seeing without truly understanding the significance at all. Then, slowly, images swam over his vision, of a neatly written little note, in the same handwriting at the sign, and the initials…

“Oh my God,” he gasped, straightening his back up so fast he definitely felt a few pops along his spine. Without even thinking, he turned and raced back down the stairs to the drawing room that they had slept in, his footsteps echoing heavily in the nearly empty house. Thankfully, Sirius slept through his rushing past, and Draco was able to slip into the drawing room without waking his cousin.

“Hermione!” he hissed, rushing to her side and gently shaking her awake; an aborted snort from Ron’s sleeping bag indicated that he had disturbed the redhead as well. “Ron! I think I found him!”

“Found who?” Hermione asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes, and for a moment she looked so cute that Draco had to stop himself from trying to kiss her. “Draco, what time is it?”

“Early,” he replied. “But I think I found R.A.B.”

That got her attention. Her eyes flew open, as Ron sat up, his hair wild and eyes heavy, before she too sat up to stare at him. “Are you sure?”

“Regulus,” Draco said. “His full name. Regulus Arcturus Black. He’s Sirius’ younger brother, another of my cousins. He joined the Death Eaters when he was our age, but he vanished within a few years, no one knows what happened to him--but it’s believed he died during the first war.” He gave her arm a little tug. “His room is upstairs, come one. We need to be sure.”

“Alright.” Ron yawned, reaching for his slippers. “But we better be quiet. I don’t think Sirius would like it if we went into his brother’s room to find evidence of whether or not he became disenchanted with You-Know-Who.”

Draco rolled his eyes as Hermione pulled her own slippers forward, as well as a hairbrush to brush her hair down, getting to his feet as he waited for them. “You know you can call the bastard by his name right?”

“I know. I just…I don’t know. It feels dangerous to say it now.”

“Not that ridiculous title he gave himself. His real name. Tom Riddle.” Draco shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m never calling him by his self-selected title again. He’ll always be Riddle, and that’s all he deserves to be called.”

As soon as the two were wearing shoes and had their wands in hand, Draco led the way back up the stairs to Regulus’ room, where he unlocked the door with a softly spoken “ _ Alohomora. _ ” The lock clicked in response, granting them access. 

It was slightly smaller than Sirius’ room--from what Draco had glimpsed of it--but whereas Sirius had proudly shown off his differences, Regulus has emphasized the opposite. The familiar emerald green and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with it’s dreaded motto added in elaborate calligraphy along the outer edge. Beneath it was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage.

Curious, Hermione wandered closer, peering at them. “They’re all about Riddle,” she reported. “Regulus seemed to have been a fan for several years before he joined the Death Eaters himself…”

When she sat down to read the clippings, a puff of dust erupted from the bedcovers, exposing just how long it had been since the room had been entered by another human being. It must have taken years before any of the family to come in here; no doubt Walburga had sealed the room out of grief when her youngest son had vanished, and Sirius didn’t seem to feel any lingering longing for his brother.

Looking around, Draco noticed another photograph; a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. Moving closer, he saw the snakes emblazoned on their chests on the older Slytherin uniforms.

Regulus, somehow, was instantly recognizable despite Draco never having seen him before; he had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter of build, and a bit less handsome than Sirius had been at that age. In the Quidditch picture, Regulus barely looked older than fifteen.

“He played Seeker,” Draco murmured, recognizing his position where he was sitting; Draco had occupied the same spot when he had played at Hogwarts. A part of him still missed the game--but without Harry to play against, Draco had found that it wasn’t as enjoyable anymore.

“So why or how did Regulus die?’ Ron asked from where he was on his hands and knees searching under the bed and the wardrobe nearby. “I mean, if we’re right, then he died when he tried to get the Horcrux from the cave, right? But did anyone else know or say anything before that happened?”

“Rumor was he got cold feet,” Draco said, pulling his eyes away from the team photo. “When you get cold feet as a Death Eater, well…that’s about the same as treason, and the punishment is always death.” He shook his head slightly. “But obviously no one in my family wanted to discuss that possibility. I don’t know if Mother actually knew the real story; she had been close to both Sirius and Regulus before everything fell apart on their ends. After she finished at Hogwarts, she had to cut off contact with everyone who had left the family and turned ‘blood traitor.’ The only letter she sent to anyone was Andromeda the night I was born. After that…”

“But it makes sense doesn’t it?” Hermione turned to face the boys, an intense look of concentration on her face. “Regulus was a Death Eater during the first war. The handwriting on the sign is a definite match for the words in the note. If Regulus learned about the Horcruxes around the same time that he started to become disenchanted with Riddle’s ideology, then he would have gone down there somehow and switched the lockets. The only thing now is to find out where he hid the real Horcrux--or if he succeeded in destroying it.”

“And how,” Draco said. “Dumbledore and I just barely got out of that cave. Regulus couldn’t have done it alone, not if he had to drink that potion. He would have given up halfway through thanks to the thirst the potion forced on him, as well as whatever stressful memories he had to be reliving.” Thinking of Walburga, it wasn’t hard for him to imagine what kind of memories his cousin could have been forced to battle against.

Hermione’s frown deepened. “That’s true…if Regulus really did end up in the cave, he couldn’t have done it by himself. There has to have been someone else there. We know he managed to switch the lockets. And if it was him, then the real one could be somewhere else in this house. Whether he managed to destroy it or not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Riddle, wouldn’t he?” She turned to Ron then. “Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What kind of things?”

“All sorts,” Ron said, snorting out a laugh before he got up from the floor, dusting his hands off. “There was a clock that shot bolts at everyone, and some robes that tried strangling me.”

It was then that Hermione paled. “Those could have been placed there to protect the locket!” she said. “Not even Sirius knew about those things, and I doubt his mother would have made such things! We just didn’t realize it at the time!” Then, she slapped a hand to her face, causing the boys to jump. “Oh! There  _ was  _ a locket! I remember now, no one could open it, even though we tried for nearly an hour!”

A rush of excitement went through Draco’s body, warming his limbs up as if preparing him for a fight. “What happened to it?” he asked eagerly. “Did it get thrown away?”

“I mean, we tried to toss it,” Ron said, looking as abruptly hopeful as Draco was feeling. “But Kreacher kept nicking everything we tried to throw away. Sirius said he had a huge hoarding problem. What if he took it? What if he hid it away where Sirius couldn’t find it to stop him throwing it away like we did with all the other stuff?”

“Kreacher?” Draco asked, seeking clarification.

“Barmy old house elf,” Ron said. “Super old, super mean. Kept calling us all blood traitors. And he called Hermione much worse.” Draco winced; he could easily imagine. “But he has a hideout in the kitchen, in one of the cupboards,” Ron went on. “Come on, let’s go down there now!”

Since Draco didn’t know where to go, Ron was the one to lead the way this time, rushing down the stairs--though the trio had to immediately quiet themselves when they reached the main landing, in an effort to not wake Walburga’s portrait. 

Upon reaching the basement kitchen, Ron went to the cupboard door and wrenched it open, with Draco and Hermione squeezing in beside him as they searched through the crowded and rather messy nest of dirty old blankets. But as they dug through the limited space, the only thing they found was an old copy of  _ Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.  _ “What’s this?” Hermione asked curiously, tugging it out and brushing some of the dust away.

“It’s a book on all the wizarding families from as early as the twelve hundreds,” Draco said. “Last time it was updated was the year we were all born, I’m assuming, because my family name is in an updated copy at Hogwarts.” Seeing the other two staring at him, he shrugged. “It’s in the Slytherin common room. I’m from two very ancient lines. I used to get curious about my family history sometimes, so I’ve read it.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like the locket is here,” Ron said in some frustration. “What do we do now?”

They were all silent for a long moment before Draco sighed, getting back to his feet and feeling his knees creaking at the movement. “I think we need to ask Sirius for help. I’m from the Black bloodline...but if Kreacher belongs to his side of the family, then the house elf may not respond to me.”

“We can’t tell Sirius about the Horcruxes,” Hermione reminded him immediately, looking worried. “Dumbledore said--”

“I know. I don’t have to tell him everything. But I think he should at least know what happened to Regulus, if Kreacher knows anything about that at all. I’ll be right back.” Turning, Draco left the kitchen, silently hurrying back up the steps until he reached Sirius’ bedroom and knocked on the door without pushing it farther open.

It took a minute, but finally Sirius appeared, the older man looking a bit bleary-eyed. “Oh,” he said sleepily. “Morning, Draco. What’s going on? You all getting breakfast ready?”

“We will--later,” Draco said. “Listen, Sirius…I know this will seem like an odd request, but can you come down to the kitchen with me and call for Kreacher? I need to ask him some questions, but since I’m not his direct owner I don’t have any authority over him.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What do you need with that old nutter?”

Draco hesitated for a moment. “It’s...because of that thing Dumbledore has me doing now. I can’t tell you everything, but Kreacher might know something about what I’m looking for, and he might...he might have some information connected to Regulus, that I think could be relevant.”

That certainly got Sirius’ attention. “What does my brother have anything to do with this?”

“I can’t tell you, exactly,” Draco said, a bit pained. “But we could get answers about something very important. Please, Sirius. I swore to Dumbledore....I can’t break that promise. But we need to talk to Kreacher.”

There was a long moment, as both cousins stared at each other, before Sirius sighed a little and reached behind the door to tug on his bathrobe. “You know,” he said, “I know you never met him, but you and Regulus would have gotten along pretty well. You’ve got his puppy eyes down almost exactly.” He smiled wryly. “Come on, then.”

Heading back down the stairs, they found Ron and Hermione sitting at the table together, a bit nervously, with Hermione holding the book in her hands. When Sirius offered them a tired smile, they reciprocated, before he sat down heavily. “Alright, well…prepare yourself, cousin. The last resident house elf of the Noble House of Black isn’t all that...charming.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Kreacher!”

It took a few moments; but then there was a small crack, and Draco jerked in surprise at the sight of the old, wrinkled house elf now standing before them. 

He looked so…there really was no kind way to describe him. Whereas Dobby always wore all of his knitted gear with pride, and the house elves of Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor wore white togas, pressed and clean and free of wrinkles, Kreacher wore only a thin loincloth. His wrinkled skin was grey and flabby, and his large ears had white hair sprouting out of them, and he glared at everyone with watery eyes over a pencil-thin nose. But he gave a low bow to Sirius, before he started muttering obscenities under his breath.

“Enough of that,” Sirius said sharply, and Kreacher fell silent, though if looks could kill, he would have had Sirius dead on the floor in a matter of seconds. “Kreacher, before we begin, you are forbidden from calling anyone a ‘Mudblood’, or a ‘blood traitor’, or any other horrendous insults, do you understand me? And because Draco is from my bloodline, I order you to obey him as well. Answer any questions he asks you with honesty, nothing less.”

That caught the house elf by surprise, and he looked to Draco for a long moment, before he resumed grumbling. Despite Draco being of Black by blood, he clearly didn’t think very highly of him for “fraternizing” with the wrong sort of people. But he offered no protest, only looked to Draco expectantly, who cleared his throat.

“Kreacher,” he began, striving for a more gentle tone than what Sirius had been using thus far, “Hermione and Ron have told me that there was a locket here, in the house, a while ago. It was impossible to open. Did you take it when they tried throwing it away?”

When Kreacher spoke, it was with a very croaky tone that made Draco wince, wondering how long it had been since the elf had any water, or if old age was on the way to destroying his vocal cords. “Yes, young Master Malfoy. Kreacher took the locket.”

“Do you know where it is?” Draco asked, hope sparking again.

And here the elf looked a bit distressed, swaying on the spot as if trying to think of a way to lie, before he stuttered out, “Gone.”

“...Gone?” Hermione and Ron traded worried looks, while Sirius just raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Draco tried ignoring the small cold spike of fear that hit his heart, crouching down to be more on level with Kreacher. “What do you mean, ‘gone’? Surely you didn’t get rid of it yourself, you cared about all of the ancient possessions the family had here, yes? Do you know what happened to it?”

“Mundungus Fletcher!” Kreacher suddenly croaked out in distress. “While Master Sirius was gone, when the house was empty, Mundungus Fletcher stole it all. Miss Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crests, and--a-and--!” 

Kreacher was gulping for air now. His hollow chest was rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes rolled and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream of agony that caused everyone present to jump.

“--and the locket, Master Regulus’ locket _ , Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed his orders!” _

Maybe it was because he had grown up with Dobby, and knew what house elves were like they punished themselves for disobeying, but Draco moved within a split second of Kreacher’s confession, and not a moment too soon. The old elf flung himself towards the fireplace where the fire pokers were, and the blonde seized the creacher around the arm, stopping him from trying to throw himself onto the sharp ends. 

“No!” he said quickly, and Hermione gave a small scream of her own in reaction to the sight of Kreacher reaching for the pokers. “Kreacher, do not hurt yourself! That is an  _ order!” _

Under normal circumstances, the house elf could have ignored him. Draco wasn’t his direct master, and thus he held no real power over him. But Sirius had told Kreacher to obey Draco due to his bloodline connection to the Blacks, and thus the elf obeyed, collapsing onto the floor as tears streamed from his heavy eyes.

“Who is Mundungus Fletcher?” Draco asked the room in general.

“Dirty little thief,” Sirius said with clear distaste. “He knows his way around certain areas and groups of people without drawing too much attention to himself, so Dumbledore recruited him for the Order...but Fletcher is very much the kind of man to look out for himself first and foremost. Not that I think he’d blab about us or what we do, but he’d definitely vanish at the first sight of trouble.” He rolled his eyes. “I should have known better than to let him have access to Grimmauld Place. He was always eyeing the family heirlooms with too much interest.”

“But if Mundungus has the locket, we have to find it,” Ron said. “Sirius, can you get Kreacher to talk to us some more?”

Sirius grimaced a little. “Kreacher, how did you know Mundungus stole everything he had?”

“Kreacher saw it,” the elf snapped. “Kreacher tried to stop him, but that filthy thief, he attacked poor Kreacher and ran off. What would Mistress Black say, to know her treasures have been stolen?”

“But the locket,” Draco said, bringing his focus back to the main point. “Can you tell me about it? Was it really Regulus’?”

Kreacher sat up slowly, still huddling in on himself slightly as he began rocking back and forth. It took him another long moment to speak again, and he sounded like he was choking back more sobs as he did so.

“Master Sirius ran away from home, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper pride; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggleborns...and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve...”

Still sitting at the table, Sirius grimaced, looking torn between interest in where this story was going, and dislike for the memories of his brother and mother that were no doubt resurfacing as he listened.

Draco did sympathize; it made his stomach turn to hear Kreacher be so proud of Regulus’ choice, sounding too much like Lucius or Crouch Jr. or any of the other fanatics who had taken over Draco’s home. But this was too important; they could not stop just because it was uncomfortable to hear it.

“And one day, a year after he had joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher, he was always good to Kreacher. And Master Regulus said...he said...” The old elf began rocking faster, pawing at his eyes with his long fingers as the tears began flowing freely again. “...he said that the Dark Lord required an elf.”

“Riddle needed an elf?” Draco repeated, looking at the other three, who looked just as puzzled as he did. “What on earth for?”

“Oh yes,” Kreacher moaned miserably. “And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do...and then to c-come right back home.” Kreacher rocked still faster, his breath coming in sobs. “So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake...there was a boat...”

Cold settled like ice in Draco’s chest as he clearly pictured the scene that Kreacher was describing. The others could only be horrified at the unfolding tale on principle; Draco had been to that terrible place. He could imagine the salty sea spray splattering his and Dumbledore’s clothing, recall the lifeless, grim chill of the caverns; Draco didn’t have to close his eyes to visualize the disturbing stillness of the lake, and the haunting glow of the little island where Tom Riddle had laid his sick trap to protect his Horcrux.

“There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it.....” The elf was quaking from head to foot, bringing Draco back to the present with a surge of pity for the pathetic little elf. “Kreacher drank, and as he drank, he saw terrible things....Kreacher’s insides burned... Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed....he made Kreacher drink all the potion....and then he dropped a locket into the empty basin....he filled it with more potion. And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island....”

_ Sweet Merlin.  _ Draco inhaled raggedly, horrified anew. He’d expected Kreacher to say that Riddle had still brought him home after making him drink the potion--but of course not. Of course he would use the elf so cruelly, and then leave him there in his agony, to let the Inferi drag him down to a cold, lonely, water-logged death.

“Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island’s edge and he drank from the black lake...and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface....”

“How did you get away?” Hermione asked, speaking for the first time since Kreacher had started his tale. She sounded hollow with grief, staring at Kreacher as if she’d never seen anything so heartbreaking in her life.

Kreacher raised his ugly head and looked at them with his great, bloodshot eyes, his expression one of confusion. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he replied, as if this were obvious.

“I know—but how did you escape the Inferi?” 

Kreacher did not seem to understand. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he repeated. 

“I know that, but—” 

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Ron cut her off; he was pale, but there was anger in his eyes that echoed what Draco was feeling. “He Disapparated!” 

“But...you couldn’t Apparate in and out of that cave,” Draco said slowly, trying to puzzle this out. “Otherwise Dumbledore—” 

“Elf magic isn’t like wizard’s magic, is it?” Ron interrupted again, shaking his head. “I mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can’t.” 

There was silence as they all digested this. How could Voldemort have made such a mistake? But even as Draco thought this, Hermione spoke, and her voice was icy now, no longer strained. “Of course, Riddle would have considered the ways of house elves far beneath his notice, just like all the purebloods who treat them like animals....it would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he didn’t.” 

“The house elf ’s highest law is his Master’s bidding,” Kreacher intoned. “Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home....”

“So what happened when you got back?” Draco asked him, returning the elf’s mind to his memories. “What did Regulus say when you told him what had happened?” 

“Master Regulus was very worried, very worried,” Kreacher croaked. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then...it was a little while later...Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell...and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord....”

And so they had set off. Draco could visualize them quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius…a young man who was scarcely older than Draco was now, just a kid. Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat; this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison...

“And he made you drink the potion?” Ron asked, disgusted. 

“No,” Draco said quietly, as Kreacher began weeping again, and Hermione clasped a hand to her mouth as if she came to the same conclusion Draco had. “Regulus cared for you, didn’t he Kreacher? He would have done anything for you. Including drinking that potion to protect you.”

“M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had,” Kreacher said, tears pouring down either side of his snout-like nose. “And he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets....” 

Kreacher’s sobs came in great rasps now; Draco had to concentrate hard to understand him. “And he ordered—Kreacher to leave—without him. And he told Kreacher—to go home—and never to tell my Mistress—what he had done—but to destroy—the first locket. And he drank—all of the potion—and Kreacher swapped the lockets—and watched...as Master Regulus...was dragged beneath the water...and...”

Draco could see it now in mind’s eye, and for one horrid second it felt like he was back on that island, because he knew what Regulus had gone through, minus the effects of the potion. All those bodies crawling out of the black water, their hollow dead eyes glaring at him, those cold, impossibly wet and slimy fingers grasping onto him, dragging him across the stones to drown him, to join their numbers--

A hand touched his, and Draco jerked slightly, finding that Hermione had come to kneel beside him. Her own eyes were filled with tears, but her free hand was rubbing his back, and it took him a moment to realize that he was shaking. “I’m okay,” he whispered.

But he wasn’t, and he knew that they could see that. And all he could think was that his long-lost cousin had been down there that night, among the Inferi--maybe even one of the ones that had tried to drown him. Hidden in the black water, decayed beyond recognition, forever-forgotten within the depths of that cave.

“Kreacher, I’m so terribly sorry for what you suffered,” Hermione said to the elf; she was crying as heavily as he was, though more quietly. She reached out to the elf from Draco’s side and tried to hug him--but at once Kreacher was on his feet, cringing away from her, quite obviously repulsed.

“The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?” 

“I told you not to call her ‘Mudblood’!” Sirius snapped, breaking his silence for the first time; but the elf was already punishing himself. He fell to the ground and banged his forehead on the floor.

“Stop him—please, stop him!” Hermione cried. “Oh, don’t you see now how sick it is, the way they’ve got to obey?”

“Kreacher—stop,  _ stop!” _ Draco and Sirius shouted in unison; Draco moved onto his knees and his cousin rose, lunging around the table to try and restrain Kreacher, preventing him from further self-injury. 

The elf collapsed onto the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening around his snout, a bruise already blooming on his pallid forehead where he had struck himself, his eyes swollen and blood-shot and swimming in tears. Draco had never seen anything so pitiful. 

“So you brought the locket home,” he said, because they  _ had _ to know the full story, even if he wished he could give Kreacher rest from his terrible memories. “And you tried to destroy it?” 

“Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it,” the elf moaned in distress. “Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work....so many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open....Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave....”

Kreacher began to sob so hard now that there were no more coherent words. Tears flowed down Hermione’s cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not dare try to touch him again .

The four humans all fell silent. Sirius slowly moved back to sit at the table facing the fireplace; he was looking at Kreacher as if he was seeing the old elf for the first time.

Draco opened his mouth to ask if his cousin was alright; but Sirius spoke first. “Kreacher,” he murmured, and perhaps because he was required to obey his master, the elf’s sobs subsided enough for him to look up, indicating that he could hear Sirius. 

“You...you clearly loved Regulus. Just as much as I know he loved you.” Sirius drew a shaky breath, looking shell-shocked. Draco had to admit, he was impressed by the degree of calm in the older man’s voice, considering that he had just learned the truth of his “missing” brother’s fate...and that Regulus had met that end choosing to defy the Dark Lord.

Regulus had not been the “picture perfect” Black, slave to the pureblood ideology, that his family had presumed him to be. Not in the end.

“You didn’t fail your master,” Sirius went on, and now he sounded stronger. “Kreacher, listen to me.” The elf’s crying stopped as he obeyed, eyes wide and glassy and intent on Sirius’ face. “The task that he gave you--he trusted you, because he knew that he could--but that task was beyond you. It was not your fault that you couldn’t destroy it, and it was not Regulus’ fault that the Dark Lord protected this locket so well. You did not fail.”

The reiteration of that point seemed to be what finally broke through to the elf. Kreacher’s tiny, bony shoulders sagged a little as if he were being physically forced to accept his master’s assertion regardless of his own agreement.

Draco glanced at Hermione, who was regarding Sirius with an expression of mingled gratitude and approval. It made Draco wonder about her and Ron’s previous stay at Grimmauld Place that she’d mentioned, two summers before; knowing Hermione, she had no doubt clashed with Sirius any time he treated Kreacher with dislike or revulsion.

They had summoned the elf for information, in order to learn more about their missing Horcrux and what had become of it. But it seemed that they’d also stumbled onto closure for multiple people, and multiple causes of pain. Sirius looked as if he almost didn’t know how to process the possibility that his younger brother had redeemed himself with his final actions, defying their family’s expectations and doing something that contributed so hugely to the efforts to defeat Tom Riddle once and for all.

“Kreacher,” Draco said at length, once it seemed that all of the crying was finished for the time being. “I am going to ask you to do something.” He drew a breath as Kreacher gave him his full--and seemingly unoffended--attention. 

Draco glanced at Hermione for guidance; he wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time, he could not pretend that it was not an order. However, his tone seemed to merit her approval, as she smiled encouragingly at him and didn’t offer any verbal input. 

He looked back to the elf. “Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket—where Master Regulus’s locket--is now. It’s really important. We want to finish the work Master Regulus started, we want to ensure that he didn’t die in vain.” 

Kreacher dropped his hands from rubbing his tear-smeared face, and looked up at Draco intently. “Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he asked in a low croak. 

“And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place. Yes.” Draco confirmed. “Do you think you could do that for us?” 

As Kreacher nodded and got shakily to his feet, Draco had a sudden inspiration. He pulled the fake Horcrux from his pocket, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort. “Kreacher, I’d, uh, also like for you to have this,” he added, pressing the locket into the elf ’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you—” 

“Overkill, mate,” Ron said dryly as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground. 

It took them nearly half an hour to calm Kreacher back down again; he had been so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps, they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blanket nest, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away. 

He then made a trio of low bows to Draco, Sirius, and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.

* * *

Draco had assumed--perhaps naively--that if Kreacher could escape the horrible grasp of the Inferi with a quick Disapparation, then it would not take him long at all to locate Fletcher and drag the thief’s sorry arse back to Grimmauld Place. But days began to tick by with no sign of the elf’s return, and gradually Draco had to stop haunting the kitchen, waiting on tenderhooks for them to appear.

They struggled to pass the time, trying to be productive and to plan for their coming Horcrux hunt. Doing so was made slightly difficult because the teenagers did not want Sirius to feel slighted by the fact that they could not share anything further with him, after the revelations about Regulus.

After Kreacher had departed, Sirius had closed himself up in his brother’s room for that day and into the night; Draco heard him crying softly through the thick wood, when he’d gone up to give his cousin a tray of food. They let him grieve in peace, and he rejoined them at breakfast the following morning. None of them tried to press him to talk about it, and he was clearly grateful, shaking off his sorrow and complimenting Draco on his culinary skills, which apparently had surprised them all.

“I had no idea that you could cook,” Ron admitted. “Figured you grew up with an army of kitchen elves handling that stuff.”

Draco shrugged, passing over a plate of freshly cooked waffles. “I did learn from the house elves in the Manor, when Mother was busy entertaining guests and Father was away on business. I couldn’t very well play in the kitchens and be underfoot, and I liked to make myself useful. And really, it’s kind of relaxing, really. I truly enjoy it.”

“Yet again, something you’re amazing at,” Hermione said dryly, and she and Draco traded a smirk, remembering their banter as they’d danced at Slughorn’s Christmas party the year before. “I am relieved, though--I was concerned I’d be responsible for keeping us fed, and--well, I’m not rubbish, but I’m not particularly  _ talented _ in the kitchen,” Hermione added, chuckling.

Draco scattered some berries over his own waffles, laughing with the others. Unbidden, his mind leapt forward in time--assuming they all survived this bloody war--and he suddenly found himself imagining a sunny, pleasant home that he could share with Hermione, where he could cook all kinds of fanciful and delicious dishes to impress her, and perhaps teach her how to make some of them, herself.

Shaking away that fantasy, Draco took a deep breath to make sure he wasn’t blushing as they finished their breakfast in good spirits.

They occupied some of their time with continuing the task of deep-cleaning the house. The Order had made good progress when they had used Grimmauld Place as their active headquarters, and the majority of Walburga and Orion’s Dark artifacts had been purged from the various nooks and crannies, but it was still a rather dismal place to live. It seemed as if every time they dusted or rearranged furniture or made any attempt to brighten things, it was back to the same grim state the following day.

Passing through the front sitting room one afternoon, Draco paused at the window, staring out through the glass and narrowing his eyes as he processed what he was seeing that had seemed so off-putting.

Two cloaked men were standing in the square across from Number Twelve, facing the building and unmoving as they seemed to simply watch the houses. They remained there into the night, gazing in the direction of the house that they could not see; Draco checked after supper, finding them still there, though one had seemingly been relieved by someone new as they maintained their surveillance.

“Death Eaters, for sure,” Ron said, frowning as he, Draco, and Hermione observed their watchers through the window of the upstairs drawing room where they were still sleeping. “Reckon they know we’re in here?"

“I hope not,” Hermione said, chewing on her lip. “I imagine they’d tell Snape to come in after us if they did...or perhaps he’s found some way to divert them from that. But it’s most likely that they are waiting to see whether we turn up here--it’d make sense, since it  _ was _ Order territory, and they likely know that Sirius is still alive. It’d be logical for them to guess that Ron and I would come here for shelter.”

Draco could see her point, though he was also curious as to why the Death Eaters would care enough to stake out where Sirius, Ron, or Hermione would be hiding. After all, Riddle and his followers believed that Draco himself was dead, and they almost certainly didn’t consider his peers, or his cousin, to be real threats to them.

Still, he kept an eye on their unwelcome guests in the square between cooking, and making travel plans with Ron and Hermione. On the fifth day after Kreacher had left to find Fletcher, Sirius found him once more in the front sitting room, a book ignored on his lap as Draco frowned out the front window.

“You keep squinting like that and your face will freeze,” Sirius joked softly.

“Well, now you just sound like my mother,” Draco shot back without any heat in his tone, and Sirius laughed, coming to sit beside him on the couch in front of the window.

“Alright, I’ll yield that point.” He peered out the window as well, eyeing the Death Eaters with some distaste. “I don’t know what they’re doing here, either. But they can’t get in, and we have the Invisibility Cloak, and you have your glamour. So we should be safe enough.”

“In all honesty, with this war...it’s hard to feel safe anywhere,” Draco admitted. “But I am glad that they haven’t gotten inside.” He frowned. “Do you suppose it is about Ron and Hermione? Or are they maybe after you?”

“I can’t imagine why they would be,” Sirius replied, shaking his head. “I’ve never been of interest to them, not after my brother and I fell out so badly following his joining them.” The older man smiled a little bitterly. “I remember it being almost funny--in a very twisted way, that is--how the entire wizarding community was so terrified after I escaped Azkaban. They called me his ‘most loyal supporter,’ so certain I was going to try and kill Harry in his name.”

“Clearly they didn’t pay enough attention to my dear aunt Bellatrix,” Draco muttered. “Five minutes’ conversation with her, and it’d be impossible to even suspect  _ you _ of being a Death Eater.”

“Thank you, that’s quite the compliment,” his cousin joked, making Draco snort a laugh. “Fortunately, I never had much interaction with her.” They both quieted for a moment, and then Sirius sighed quietly, looking over at Draco. “I’m sorry you were forced to spend so much time trapped there, these last few years.”

Draco’s mouth twisted in a sad parody of a smile. “You’ve suffered similarly, cooped up in this madhouse. I’m amazed you’re still sane with your charming mother in the front entryway.”

“Ah, but I had the Order coming in and out,” Sirius pointed out. “And, given that  _ technically _ I’m ‘on the run,’ lost in the wind--or I’m presumed dead, depends on who you ask--I’ve been at liberty to communicate with the people I care about as much as I please.”

“True.” Draco grimaced. “I barely dared risk letters to my best mates in Slytherin...and that’s leaving out any attempts at coded messages for them to pass on to anyone in the Order or the DA.”

“Ah, right, you have some more decent people in Slytherin backing you up,” Sirius remarked. “They were at the wedding, weren’t they? Disguised, I assume, though I wouldn’t have recognized them, anyway.”

“You might’ve--Theo, at least, he certainly looks like his father,” Draco replied, though his voice tightened a little as he thought, for the first time in months, of his best friend’s murdered parent. “The Nott family. And Pansy, she’s a Parkinson.”

“I know of them, but not intimately,” Sirius conceded. “Of course, we’re technically different generations, all said and done.” He glanced toward the hallway; they could distantly hear Ron and Hermione chatting in the kitchen, out of hearing from the sitting room. “But speaking of those Slytherin friends of yours, am I misunderstanding the teasing that I’ve been hearing? Is Ron involved with this Pansy girl?”

“Oh--yeah, that’s a very slowly-blooming thing,” Draco confirmed, returning his cousin’s grin. “Merlin, you should’ve seen how maddening they were--Ron started dating a Gryffindor girl and Pansy was just about spitting fire every time she so much as thought of them together.”

They both chuckled over that before falling back into a brief, comfortable silence. Then Sirius smirked, his voice dropping a little as if sharing a conspiracy. “They’re not the only ones mingling between the Houses, though, are they?” When Draco shot him a startled look, his cousin’s grin widened shrewdly. “I’m not saying that you’re too blatantly obvious--I can tell you’re both trying very valiantly to be discreet.” He chuckled softly. “But I spent my entire time at Hogwarts watching my best mate in the world go to absolute pieces every time Lily Evans was seen or mentioned. You’ve got that same starstruck look in your eyes if you so much as hear Hermione speak.”

Draco huffed, covering his face with one hand in joking embarrassment. “Bloody hell, I’m really bollocks at hiding it. Honestly, how is Ron still unaware?”

“Well, in his defense, he’s got a talent for missing the obvious,” Sirius assured him, laughing. “I’m assuming he didn’t even register that Pansy was upset over that Gryffindor girl, right?” When Draco snorted and nodded, Sirius shrugged. “Don’t worry.  _ I _ only see it clearly because like I said, James went from the cockiest bastard in England to a complete moron anytime he saw Lily.”

He reached out, giving Draco’s shoulder a fond nudge. “You’ve good taste. Just make sure you treat her right, especially once all this war mess is over.”

“Of course,” Draco said, nearly scoffing at the idea of giving Hermione anything less than his very best. “If there is one good thing that my upbringing instilled in me, it’s the importance of respect and kindness in relationships.” He smiled faintly. “For all of my father’s flaws...I can tell you one thing; he truly loves my mother. Treating one’s lady like a queen is a given.”

Sirius didn’t answer, and Draco looked over at him curiously. His cousin was regarding him with soft surprise in his dark eyes, and he smiled back at Draco when the younger man raised his eyebrows in question. “You’ll do just fine,” Sirius assured him. “You’re a good man, Draco.”

The praise made him blush, and Draco turned his gaze back to the street outside; the Death Eaters on duty were smudgy shadows under one dim street lamp as night fell over London.

Draco thought about Sirius’ comments about the differences between their experiences over recent years, both of them living in a sort of “house arrest,” and after a moment his brow furrowed. “You know...I wonder how differently these past couple of years would have gone if Harry was still here to be a part of it all.”

Sirius looked over at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Well--there’d be a lot of things that changed,” Draco explained. “Assuming Harry had survived...that night, specifically...he’d have made it back to tell the world that Riddle was back.” Sirius didn’t comment on the name he chose to use for Voldemort, and Draco pressed on, knowing that his cousin knew who he meant. “I don’t know if the Ministry would’ve believed him, but it would have made the other side’s experience much harder.”

“You’re wondering what it would have changed for you,” Sirius stated, and Draco looked over at him, swallowing hard. “Wondering if you’d still have come to our side?”

“A bit,” Draco admitted softly. “I mean--it wasn’t just about Harry. The things that happened at Malfoy Manor, everything that I witnessed...I went to Dumbledore because it was just too horrifying. I was so disgusted by the things that they did so...and they did it all so  _ happily.”  _ He sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. “Then again, maybe I’d have gotten the chance to tell Harry...that I was sorry. For everything before that.”

“I didn’t get to spend nearly as long with Harry as I’d have liked,” Sirius said slowly. “But for all that he had suffered throughout his life...I can tell you that he was the most compassionate man I knew. Definitely took after his mum, there.” He smiled gently at Draco. “I think you two would’ve worked things out.”

Draco sighed heavily. “Maybe. I hope so.” He glanced at the doorway, hearing the other two beginning to move, emerging from the kitchen. “All that matters now is doing right by his memory, I suppose.”

As they left the drawing room and started to follow Ron and Hermione upstairs for the night, they were stopped in their tracks by the sound of the front door’s latch unfastening. 

Draco drew his wand, turning along with Sirius and positioning himself protectively in front of Ron and Hermione as the door opened. The dust rolled across the foyer carpet like a low-to-the-ground mist, the disturbing grey shape of Dumbledore’s figure surging up to confront the unexpected intruder. Draco couldn’t see who it was, but he heard a clear, calm male voice speak, responding correctly to banish the trap.

“Show yourself,” Draco ordered, his voice hard as steel. He supposed he could’ve let Sirius handle this, given that was his house--but Draco was not going to let anyone endanger Hermione. Whoever it was knew how to disarm the booby trap, but that did not make them a friend.

But Sirius had been wise not to call out; Draco had forgotten about his charming great-aunt. Before the newcomer could answer him, the curtains burst open and Walburga once more began to scream,  _ “Mudbloods and filth dishonoring my house—” _

Ron and Hermione came to stand on either side of Draco, their wands also pointing at the unknown man now standing with his arms raised in the hall below. “Hold your fire, it’s me, Remus!”


	31. Walls of Granite Here I Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What they were going to attempt tomorrow was the next step for him, and there was no sense worrying otherwise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's later in the day, dear friends. But here we go!

_“Hold your fire, it’s me, Remus!”_

Over the enraged squalling of Mrs. Black’s portrait, the words were harder to hear--but now that the dust trap had faded, they could see at least the shape of the man, standing in the shadows by the front door.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Hermione said with blatant relief before turning her wand on Walburga instead. With a bang, the curtains swished shut again and silence fell. Ron, too, lowered his wand--but Sirius and Draco did not. 

“Show yourself,” Draco repeated, quieter this time, but still firmly.

Remus moved forward into the lamplight, hands still held high in a gesture of surrender. “I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder’s Map. I am married to Nymphadora, usually known as Tonks; and I am one of the few who knows that you, Draco, are alive and a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and have been so since the beginning of your fifth year at Hogwarts.”

Draco glanced at Sirius, who looked back at him and nodded, lowering his wand; he considered those identifiers sufficient.

“Alright. It’s good to see you, then,” Draco offered, putting away his wand at last. Remus chuckled at that, giving Draco a look of wry amusement before firmly returning Sirius’ embrace as his old friend stepped forward to greet him. He hugged each of the teenagers in turn, ending with Draco; the blonde returned the hold tightly, glad for the confirmation that at least one dear friend was alright.

“So what’s brought you here?” Hermione asked, looking torn between relief and concern. “Is everyone alright?”

“Yes, everyone’s alive and well,” Remus confirmed. “But we’re all being watched, not that that’s a surprise.” He frowned, gesturing towards the door as he removed his cloak, which Sirius took to hang up for him. “There are a couple of Death Eaters in the square, actually--”

“We know,” Sirius confirmed.

“I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step outside the front door to be sure that they would not see me,” Remus said, nodding. “They must not know that you’re all in here, or I’m sure they’d have more people out there; they’re staking out everywhere that’s got any connection with Ron and Hermione.”

“Here, let’s move into the kitchen,” Sirius advised, gesturing down the hall. “We’ve a lot to discuss--we want to hear what happened after we left the Burrow.” 

The group shuffled down the hallway into the kitchen, and Hermione pointed her wand at the grate. A fire sprang up instantly; it gave a pleasant sense of coziness to contrast the stark stone walls, and gleamed off of the surface of the long wooden table.

Sirius pulled a few butterbeers from the ice box and passed them around as they all sat down on the benches. “I’d have been here three days ago, but I needed to shake off the Death Eater tailing me,” Remus said tiredly, cracking open his bottle. “So, did you four come straight here after leaving the wedding?”

“Yes.” Sirius summarized how he’d connected with the three teenagers and then come here, and how they had been a mess of indecision and worry before Arthur managed to notify them that the family was still safe. “But please, Remus--tell us what happened after we left, we haven’t heard anything since Arthur was able to send his Patronus.” 

“Well, Kingsley saved us all,” Remus said. “Thanks to his warning most of the wedding guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived.”

“Were they Death Eaters, or Ministry people?” Hermione asked softly. Draco glanced at her, his heart tugging at how pale and drawn she looked. It was a relief to have another friend there--but at the same time, Remus’ presence to bring back their awareness of the impending darkness looming in on them from outside of Grimmauld Place. They were safe and sheltered in here; but it was temporary.

“A mixture; but to all intents and purposes they’re the same thing now,” Remus replied regretfully. “There were about a dozen of them...but it remains unclear why they came there at all. Arthur heard a rumor that they tried to torture your whereabouts--” Remus nodded at Ron and Hermione, who both startled at this news. “--out of Scrimgeour before they killed him; if that’s true, then he didn’t give you away.”

Draco looked at Ron and Hermione; their faces reflected the mingled shock and gratitude that he felt. None of them had particularly liked Scrimgeour, given the circumstances, but if that rumor was accurate...then the man’s final act had been to try to protect the people who he knew were most vital to stopping Voldemort.

“The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to bottom,” Remus went on. “They found the ghoul, but didn’t want to get too close—clever on you, Ron.” He nodded approvingly at the redhead, and Ron offered a faint, strained smile. 

Draco was glad that that plan had proven useful, even if the Death Eaters weren’t completely sold on the attic-dweller being Ron. “And then they interrogated those of us who remained, for several hours. They were trying to get information on you two, but of course nobody in the Order was going to budge.”

Remus accepted a small bowl of stew from Sirius out of their supper leftovers, eating slowly as he continued talking. “At the same time that they were smashing up the wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing their way into every Order-connected house in the country. No deaths,” he added quickly, forestalling the question as Hermione paled further, and opened her mouth. “But they were quite rough. They burned down Dedalus Diggle’s house, but as you know he wasn’t there...and they used the Cruciatus Curse on Tonks’s family. Again, trying to find out where you were...given your affiliation with me and the Order, they were seen as a logical possible safehouse. They’re alright—shaken, obviously, but otherwise okay.”

Draco made a strangled sound of horror, his aunt Bellatrix’s cruel face flashing through his mind. It would not shock him in the slightest if Remus were to tell him that she had been among those who attacked Tonk’s poor parents, regardless of the fact that Andromeda was her own sister.

“The Death Eaters got through all the protective charms? I assume their home was as guarded as the Burrow was,” Draco asked, frowning. “Though how they got through even at the Burrow...”

“Well, what you’ve got to realize is that the Death Eaters now have the full might of the Ministry on their side now,” Remus told him sadly. “They’ve got the power to perform brutal spells without fear of identification or arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive spell we’d cast against them, and once inside, they were completely open about why they’d come.”

“And are they bothering to give an excuse for torturing our whereabouts out of people?” Hermione asked, an edge entering her voice. “Or is it not worth the effort to justify that degree of violence when searching for a pair of _teenagers_?”

“Well,” Remus said again, and now he sounded as if he might be hedging. He hesitated, then pulled out a folded copy of the Daily Prophet. “Here,” he said finally, a touch reluctantly, pushing it across the table towards them. “You’ll hear sooner or later, anyway. This is their pretext for going after you.” 

Hermione smoothed out the paper, and Ron, Sirius, and Draco all leaned over to see the front page as well. A huge photograph of Ron and Hermione’s faces filled the front page, beneath the headline: _WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE._

Ron let out a choked sound of outrage as Hermione inhaled sharply, but Draco said nothing. He pushed the newspaper away, not wanting to read any of the article. He knew what kinds of lies it would say.

Nobody but those who had been on top of the Astronomy Tower when Dumbledore died knew who had really killed him and why, or where Dumbledore had been right beforehand. More than enough people could confirm that the late Headmaster had been particularly close to Harry Potter’s best friends, and of course the community wouldn’t realize that logically, Ron and Hermione wouldn’t be back at Hogwarts or out in the public eye anyway, in the aftermath of the Ministry falling--or “changing directions,” as they no doubt were trying to present this transition. 

Whatever reason the Death Eaters had for wanting to capture the two Gryffindors, planting suspicion that they were linked with the tragic events at Hogwarts on that spring night was certainly not a bad way to render the public decidedly unhelpful in their defense.

“I’m sorry, truly,” Remus said gently to the two of them. “It’s crass, but effective. We’re all keeping our ears to the ground, though, so we’ll hopefully learn why they’re bothering to try and find you at all.”

“So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet too?” Hermione asked, her eyes swiftly scanning the article. Reading her expression, Draco knew he’d been right not to browse it himself. Nothing written there could possibly matter, and it would only make him feel worse.

Remus nodded, and Ron scowled. “But surely people realize what’s going on?” he demanded. “That this is all utter tripe?”

“The coup has been smooth and virtually silent,” Remus said, shaking his head and letting Sirius clear away his empty soup bowl. “The official version of Scrimgeour’s murder is that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse.”

Draco inhaled at that, remembering Thicknesse’s blank face when Lucius had taken his son to wait in his office, infiltrating the Ministry on the night that the DA and the Order had dueled Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries. 

He supposed it made sense that they wouldn’t bother replacing a plant that they already had in place and ready. They had him under the Imperius Curse already, and the wizarding community would hardly protest his taking formal office in Scrimgeour’s “absence.” Though how no one questioned his complete disappearance was beyond Draco.

“Why didn’t Voldemort just declare himself Minister of Magic?” Ron asked, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that basically what he is, with things like this?”

Remus chuckled, but the sound was bitter. “He doesn’t need to, Ron. Effectively he _is_ the Minister, but why should he spend his time sitting behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Lord Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry.”

“And the public response?” Hermione asked softly. Remus sighed.

“Naturally many people have deduced what has happened; there has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. However, that is the point: they _whisper._ They daren’t confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; everyone is scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted as a result. Yes, Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion...remaining masked has created confusion, uncertainty, and fear.”

“And this dramatic change in Ministry policy,” Draco said slowly. “It involves turning the Wizarding world against Dumbledore’s supporters and fellow fighters, instead of Riddle? The Dark Lord,” he added, at Remus’ confused glance. “It was his surname before he rose to power. It’s the only name I’ll be using for him.”

Remus looked intrigued about that, but he focused on answering Draco’s question. “That’s certainly part of it,” he confirmed. “And it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, his most vocal supporters-- _especially_ Ron and Hermione, as the best friends of the late Boy Who Lived--were sure to become a symbol and rallying point for any resistance to You-Know-Who. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hero’s death...”

He looked regretfully back at Ron and Hermione, his face pinching. “Well, that not only sets a price upon your heads, but it also sows doubt and fear amongst many who would have rushed to defend you. Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggleborns.” Lupin pointed at the Daily Prophet again.“Look at page two.” 

Hermione turned the pages with much the same expression of distaste she had worn when handling _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. “‘Muggleborn Register,’” she read aloud. “‘The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called ‘Muggleborns,’ the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets. Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggleborn is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force.’”

“What the actual _fuck_ \--” Sirius began, but Remus hushed him, expression grim. Hermione continued reading, her voice starting to quiver with anger.

“‘The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggleborn to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggleborn Registration Commission.’”

“People won’t let this happen,” Ron protested, his tone choked. “Surely--”

“It _is_ happening, Ron,” Remus stopped him, shaking his head once more. He looked as heartbroken as the others felt. “Muggleborns are being rounded up as we speak.”

“But how are they supposed to have ‘stolen’ magic?” Ron demanded. “It’s mental, if you could steal magic there wouldn’t be any Squibs, would there?”

“I know,” Remus agreed sadly. “Nevertheless, unless you can prove that you have at least one close Wizarding relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your magical power illegally...and must suffer the punishment.”

Draco clenched his jaw, wondering how many people were already dead without anyone knowing it yet, because their bloodline had been questioned.

Ron glanced at Hermione, then said, “What if purebloods and half-bloods swear a Muggleborn is a member of their family? I’ll tell everyone Hermione’s my cousin—” 

Hermione’s face softened out of its anger a little, and she reached out to cover Ron’s hand with hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Ron, but I couldn’t let you—”

“You won’t have a choice. I’ll teach you my family tree so you can answer questions on it,” Ron told her firmly, turning his hand over to return her grip. Draco had to admit, he sometimes forgot just how deeply the love and loyalty between the pair of them ran; they had survived the loss of their best friend, and found a home in one another that neither of them would likely ever have with anyone else. Draco and Pansy met very different needs for each of the Gryffindors.

He would be forever grateful for the role that the redhead played in Hermione’s life, as well as what Ron did for Draco himself.

Hermione gave him a small, shaky smile. “It’s okay, Ron, really. We’re on the run now, remember? We’ll be with Draco--none of us can risk being seen anyway, especially not by anyone who’d be a danger to me over my blood status. If I was going back to school it would be different. Speaking of which...what is Riddle planning for Hogwarts?” she added, turning this question back to Remus. 

“Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch and wizard,” he replied. “That was announced yesterday. It is a change, because it was never obligatory before. Of course, nearly every witch and wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but their parents had the right to teach them at home or send them abroad if they preferred.”

“Mm, yes, my father would’ve happily sent me to Durmstrang if Mother hadn’t protested me being sent that far away,” Draco remarked. “Interesting, that that will be discouraged now. Durmstrang is also fairly selective where blood status is concerned--you’d think this administration would appreciate their approach.”

“Well, this way, Voldemort has the whole of England’s wizarding population under his eye from a young age,” Remus explained, and Draco could see the merit of that at once, at least from Riddle’s point of view. “No international diplomacy involved. And it’s also another way of weeding out Muggleborns, because students must be given a Blood Status label—meaning that they have proven to the Ministry that they are of pureblood descent—before they are allowed to attend.”

Draco’s lip curled, feeling sickened and angry; Ron, Sirius, and Hermione’s faces mirrored his disgust. At that moment, all over the country excited eleven-year-olds would be poring over stacks of newly purchased spell-books, unaware that they would never see Hogwarts, perhaps never see their families again either. 

“That is--despicable,” Hermione muttered, unsteadily, as if she was struggling to find words that did justice to the horror of her thoughts over the entire mess.

Remus nodded sadly, “I know.” He hesitated, then looked at Draco. “I’ll understand if you can’t confirm this, Draco, but the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore left you a mission.” 

“He did,” Draco confirmed, quiet and firm. He could already imagine where this conversation might lead, and he had to be ready to be as unyielding as ever about secrecy that the three teenagers needed to maintain. “Ron and Hermione are in on it as well, and they’ll be coming with me.”

“Can you confide in me what the mission is?” Remus sounded more professional or business-like than usual as he asked it, and Draco had the fleeting thought that finally, he and the others were being perceived as adults and equals within the Order.

He looked into the prematurely lined face, framed in thick but greying hair, and wished that he could return a different answer. “I can’t, Remus, I’m sorry. If Dumbledore didn’t tell you, then it isn’t my place to do so.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Remus conceded, looking disappointed. “But I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am, and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to.”

Draco hesitated at that; even knowing that that suggestion could be among the directions that Remus’ mind was drifting, he hadn’t prepared himself to automatically turn it away. It was a very tempting offer, though how they would be able to keep their mission secret from Remus if he were with them all the time he could not imagine. It was difficult enough just planning in whispers in their room at night, not wanting to endanger Sirius if he were to overhear them.

Hermione looked puzzled, which held Draco’s tongue; he’d have thought that she would pounce on the offer, and tell him that she wanted to accept it. “But what about Tonks?” she asked Remus. 

“What about her?”

“Well,” Hermione said slowly, beginning to frown. “You’re married! How would she feel about you going away with us?”

“Tonks will be perfectly safe,” Remus replied briskly. “She’ll be at her parents’ house.”

There was something strange in Lupin’s tone; it was almost cold. There was also something odd in the idea of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents’ house; she was, after all, a member of the Order and, from what Draco had come to know about his cousin, was likely to want to be in the thick of the action. Especially if her husband was out in the field, as well.

“Remus,” Hermione asked tentatively. “Is everything all right...you know...between you and—” 

“Everything is fine, thank you,” Remus said pointedly, and Hermione turned pink, which made Draco frown; he disliked seeing her appear cowed by someone they trusted so deeply. 

There was another pause, an awkward and embarrassed one, and then Remus said, with an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant, “Tonks is going to have a baby.” 

“Oh, how wonderful!” Hermione gasped. 

“Excellent!” Ron agreed enthusiastically, and Sirius raised his butterbeer in a toast.

“Congratulations,” Draco said quietly, his eyes remaining intent on the older wizard’s face. 

Remus gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace, then went on, “So...do you accept my offer? Will three become four? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. And I must tell you that I believe that we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined.” 

Ron and Hermione both looked to Draco, visibly unsure of how to respond. “Just to make sure I understand you,” Draco said slowly, his fingers idly following the drops of condensation sweating down the sides of his own drink. “You want to leave Tonks at her parents’ house, and come away with us?” 

“She’ll be perfectly safe there, they’ll look after her,” Remus replied. He spoke with a finality bordering on indifference, and it settled like a small, heavy stone in the pit of Draco’s stomach to hear it. Remus looked to Ron and Hermione--and Draco knew before it was uttered what the older man was going to say to try and persuade them to back him. “I’m quite sure that Harry would have wanted me to stick with you, as well, to protect you all.”

Draco opened his mouth--he didn’t know what he’d say, other than that he did not appreciate Remus using that kind of emotional manipulation against Ron and Hermione--but it was Sirius who spoke first. “I’m not sure I agree with you there, Moony.”

The other four all looked at him in surprise. Sirius was staring at Remus with an expression that seemed to mix sorrow, frustration, and pity; it was not a look that Draco was used to seeing on his cousin’s handsome face. “Now, I know you got to spend more time with Harry,” he added, as Remus seemed to rally himself for an argument. “But I’ve also been told over and over again--and I certainly saw for myself, however briefly--that he was every bit James’ son.”

“Well, yes--absolutely. And therefore--”

Sirius cut his friend off again. “And you can’t tell me that I didn’t know James. So I can say with certainty...that I am quite sure that Prongs would have wanted to know why you aren’t sticking with your own kid.”

The pause following this statement was so resoundingly weighted that Draco felt as if his lungs were being compressed by it. Ron looked like he didn’t recognize Sirius, and Hermione was looking back and forth between the two older men with wide, scared eyes. Draco found himself nearly holding his breath as the pressure inched up second by passing second.

“You don’t understand,” Remus said at last. He looked slightly shrunken in on himself, as if he had not anticipated even the faintest possibility of his childhood best friend being the one to protest his offer.

“Explain it to me, then,” Sirius returned, pushing his butterbeer aside. His gaze remained locked on Remus’ face. "You know just as well as I do that James and Lily wanted to be parents more than anything in the world. Their son was the most sacred thing in the universe to them; they died for him without question, just as you and I swore that we would have--or still would now, for each other.” He raised skeptical eyebrows. “You would abandon your wife and unborn child to go on a reckless adventure? What do you think Lily would say? I can tell you already what _James_ would say to that idiocy."

Remus swallowed, looking haunted as he stared back at Sirius. “I—I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and I have regretted it very much ever since.”

“So you’re just going to dump her and your child and run off with us?” Draco asked, unable to stay silent in the face of such ugly “logic.” He could clearly see his disapproval echoed in Sirius’ eyes, though the older man was masking it better than he was.

Remus sprang to his feet, making the others all jump slightly. His chair toppled over backward, and he glared at them so fiercely that Draco saw, for the first time ever, the shadow of the wolf upon his human face. “Don’t you understand what I’ve done to my wife and my unborn child?” Remus demanded, and it was as if a dam had broken, unleashing a torrent of pain and fear. “I should never have married her, I’ve made her an outcast!” 

He kicked aside the chair that he had overturned. “You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore’s protection at Hogwarts! Even you, Sirius--the Order shielded me in the years between school, and losing James and Lily. Even _you_ have never seen the extent of it all--you don’t know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see what I’ve done? Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child—the child—"

Remus actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he suddenly looked a little deranged. “My kind doesn't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it—how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!” 

“Remus!” Hermione cried hoarsely, tears in her eyes. “Don’t say that—how could any child be ashamed of you?”

It was on the tip of Draco’s tongue, unforgivably, to counter that he wouldn’t blame this unborn child because _he_ was feeling rather ashamed of their former teacher right then. But again--to his relief--Sirius spoke first.

"Moony, my friend,” he said softly, rising and moving to Remus’ side in front of the fireplace. “I love you, and I have loved you since we were eleven-years-old, but you are being a fucking idiot. Calm down, right now."

Remus actually stopped his agitated twitching and went silent at that, staring at Sirius in amazement. The three teenagers were speechless, letting Sirius handle this moment of distress tearing at his lifelong friend. “If Prongs were here right now, he’d be smacking you upside the head for such talk,” Sirius went on, his tone gentle. “Come now, sit back down.”

Pushing Remus back onto the bench seat, Sirius sank down beside him, holding his gaze firmly. “You know that I’m right, too. They were just as committed to the Order, and to all of us who they loved, and to the fight against Riddle, as you and I are now. But Harry was their world; after he was born, then he came first over everything else, and that was the case long before we ever learned the horrifying truth that the Dark Lord wanted him dead.”

His voice softened kindly. “I do agree with Hermione that you, the man who you are--your son or daughter will be _anything_ but ashamed of you. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong to fear for their safety. And _that_ means that, if you are even half the man I grew up alongside, and who loved James and Lily Potter just as fiercely as I did...you will not leave your child undefended. You cannot. Come now; Moony, you _know_ that.” 

Sirius squeezed Remus’ hands between his own. “Your baby is going to need you, alongside Tonks, just as desperately as Harry needed James and Lily on that horrific night.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the crackling of the fireplace. Remus seemed too stunned to reply, and after a pause, Sirius looked over at Draco and the others and then smiled a little bemusedly. “Besides all of that,” he added, and Remus sucked in a breath at the prospect of hearing more. “It’s time we faced some realities. We’re the old Order, you know...it isn’t our job anymore to rush about the country, taking on missions and turning them into adventures.”

Sirius nodded his head towards the teenagers. “Our role now is to support the new Order. We have to ensure that these young ones have the chance to finish this war that’s been brewing since the Marauders first roamed the halls of Hogwarts.”

As if something in all of this had unlocked another surge of emotion, Remus’ face dropped forward against Sirius’ shoulder, and he began to weep. Ron and Hermione looked ashen, as if unsure if they should remain to witness this; Draco did not move, quietly letting Remus have the moment as Sirius held him tight, soothing him with words too soft for the others to hear.

Eventually, Remus calmed, and Sirius conjured a damp cloth to clean his face with. He looked around at them with watery eyes, smiling tremulously. “What you all must think of me--I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Draco said, and Ron and Hermione nodded agreement. “I’m just very glad that Sirius was here, too. You needed to hear all that from him.”

Remus nodded tiredly, drying his eyes and drawing a deep, bracing breath. “Well. I suppose...I ought to get home to my family,” he said finally, chuckling tiredly at the firm round of nods that he was given. “I will do my best to communicate with you all again, as soon as possible.” He swallowed, looking at them as if seeing them in a new light, and Draco met his gaze with a reassuring nod. “Be safe. All of you.”

They traded farewell embraces and then Sirius went to see Remus off at the door, leaving the three teenagers in the kitchen. Hermione started some tea, which Ron took over when he saw how much she was trembling, and Draco made her come back to sit by the fire, warming her up after that tumultuous exchange.

“I do...I do rather wish he could’ve come with us,” she confessed at length, after they had heard Sirius climb the stairs. No doubt, Draco supposed, he was a good bit shaken himself after seeing one of his longest-lasting best friends suffer such an outburst. “Him, or Sirius, maybe--it’s just that...you know...”

“It’d be nice to have a ‘proper’ adult with us?” Draco asked dryly, and she nodded, laughing a bit wetly. “Yes, I do know. And I wish I could have actually considered it.”

“But we can’t,” Hermione agreed, accepting the tea that Ron brought over and warming her hands on the china mug. She sighed heavily. “And we don’t even know where we’re going yet, anyway. There’s still so much to do...”

Draco was opening his mouth to advise that they start by getting some sleep--plotting anything after such a rough conversation wasn’t going to do any of their minds and good--when suddenly there was a shocking _crack_ of Apparition.

They all stumbled to their feet with yelps of surprise, drawing their wands as the tea cups shattered, staring in confusion at what appeared to be a roiling mess of limbs that had just materialized in the kitchen corner near the cellar door.

“What the hell was--” Sirius clattered back into the kitchen, wand raised, and then he stopped to stare as well, brow furrowing. Then his face cleared abruptly. “Oh--Draco, it’s Kreacher!”

“Bloody--you’re right,” Draco realized, keeping his wand out, if lowered. “Kreacher? Are you--what am I looking at, are you hurt?”

With several grunts and low noises of anger--and what seemed to be some slaps or punches--Kreacher disentangled himself and, bowing low to Draco, croaked, “Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher, Master Draco.” 

Mundungus scrambled up and pulled out his wand; Hermione moved at once, much too quick for him. “Expelliarmus!” Mundungus’s wand soared into the air, and Hermione caught it. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dived for the stairs, though Draco could not imagine where he thought he’d be going. Ron rugby-tackled him halfway there, and Mundungus hit the stone floor with a muffled crunch.

“What?” he bellowed, writhing in his attempts to free himself from Ron’s grip. “Wha’ve I done? Setting a bleedin’ ’ouse elf on me, what are you playing at, wha’ve I done, lemme go, lemme go, or I’ll—”

“You’re not in much of a position to make threats,” Draco pointed out to him irritably. Hermione started repairing and putting away the shattered tea set, and Draco crossed the kitchen in a few strides, dropping to one knee beside Mundungus, who stopped struggling and looked up at him, his face terrified. 

Ron got up, panting, and watched as Draco pointed his wand deliberately at Mundungus’s nose. Mundungus stank of stale sweat and tobacco smoke; his hair was matted and his robes stained. He was an absolutely filthy mess, and Draco couldn’t help curling his lip at the state of the man.

“Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master Draco,” the elf croaked, backing away slowly to stand closer to Sirius, who appeared surprised and a little impressed that Kreacher was approaching him deferentially. “Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the thief in the end.”

“You’ve done really well, Kreacher,” Draco assured him, and the elf bowed low at the praise. “Right, we’ve got a few questions for you,” Draco went on, turning back to Mundungus. “So shut up and listen. When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable--

Mundungus interrupted him with a squawk. “Sirius never cared about any of the junk ‘ere—” 

There was the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony: Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan. Behind him, Sirius looked torn between anger over Mundungus’ lack of shame for his thieving, and laughter at the ferocity of Kreacher’s defense of the Black family home.

“Call ’im off, call ’im off, ’e should be locked up!” Mundungus screamed, cowering as Kreacher raised the enormous pan again.

“Kreacher--Kreacher, no, it’s alright! Stop,” Sirius said hastily, reaching out to put his hand on Kreacher’s small shoulder, holding him back.

Kreacher’s thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan, still held aloft. “Perhaps just one more, Master Sirius, for luck?” he asked, and Ron snorted a laugh; Draco, too, couldn’t help a tiny smile as he shook his head at the elf.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm. We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading you can do the honors,” Draco promised him.

“Thank you very much, Master Draco,” Kreacher said with a bow, and he retreated a short distance, his great pale eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing. He kept a tight hold on the pan, bony fingers flexing on its handle as if keeping himself braced to attack if permitted.

“When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find,” Draco began again, ignoring Mundungus’ aborted squeak of renewed protest. “You took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard.” He gestured to Kreacher’s room, and the elf shuffled to stand defensively before it, as if Mundungus’ gaze alone could infiltrate his sacred space.

“There was a locket there.” Draco’s mouth was suddenly rather dry; he could sense Ron and Hermione’s tension and excitement rising along with his own. “What did you do with it?” 

“Why?” Mundungus asked, dropping the quivering and whimpering and looking more shrewd. “Is it valuable?”

“You’ve still got it!” Hermione gasped hopefully.

“No, he hasn’t,” Ron said, looking at Mundungus with disgust. “He’s wondering whether he should have asked for more money for it.” 

“More?” Mundungus demanded. “That wouldn’t have been effing difficult...bleedin’ gave it away, di’n’ I? No choice.” 

“What do you mean?” Draco asked him sharply. “Talk, man, spell it out.”

“I was selling in Diagon Alley, and she come up to me and asks if I’ve got a license for trading in magical artifacts. Bleedin’ snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an’ told me she’d take it and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky.” 

“Who was this woman?” Draco asked impatiently. He was about ready to let Kreacher swing again, even if it did knock Mundungus out, if only because he was being so bloody difficult.

“I dunno, some Ministry hag.” Mundungus considered for a moment, brow wrinkled. “Little woman. Bow on top of ’er head.” He frowned deeper, and then added, “Looked like a toad.” 

Draco’s hand slipped on his wand: the end hit Mundungus on the nose and shot red sparks into his eyebrows, which ignited at once. “Aguamenti!” Hermione yelped, and a jet of water streamed from her wand, engulfing a sputtering and choking Mundungus and dousing the small flames. Draco looked up, seeing his own shock reflected in Ron’s and Hermione’s faces.

* * *

From that point on, the three of them became fully immersed in planning. Sirius sent Mundungus packing with a thoroughly dire warning against any future attempts to rob Grimmauld Place, and then he gave the teenagers space.

Draco felt briefly guilty about that, but Sirius assured him over supper one evening--he did join them for meals, every time--that he had meant what he’d told Remus, and he could see the solemn resolve in each of them when it came to this mission of theirs. He knew that they couldn’t tell him everything, and he was willing to accept that and make things easier for them.

Kreacher, meanwhile, had warmed up completely to his master and to their guests; he was now cooking and cleaning and managing the house with vigor and pleasantness. He even bathed himself and tidied his little cupboard, and switched to wearing a funny little toga-like garment that bore the Black family crest. The change was from night to day as the old elf bounced about the house, handling laundry and cleaning and food prep so that the humans could focus on their plans without breaking concentration for anything other than eating and sleeping.

Remus’ comment about Apparating directly to the top step opened some new possibilities, and Draco took advantage. Using the Invisibility Cloak he could step out onto the stoop and leave without the watching Death Eaters knowing anything was amiss, since they couldn’t see the front door open, or see Draco at all.

With his glamour charm, therefore, Draco was able to sneak out of the house in order to get newspapers and other supplies as needed, and to monitor the entrance to the Ministry, scouting for any details that would help with their impending infiltration.

It was nerve-wracking every time, and he knew that Hermione could barely breathe when he was out, but it was necessary. They couldn’t move forward until they _knew_ they were fully and completely prepared, and could handle any number of crises. Things never went perfectly as planned, after all.

Returning one night and heading straight for the kitchen, Draco allowed Kreacher to take the Invisibility Cloak and his jacket to go hang them in the hall wardrobe. The kitchen was almost unrecognizable. Every surface now shone: copper pots and pans had been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleamed; the goblets and plates already laid for dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire, on which a cauldron was simmering.

Kreacher trotted back in, Regulus’s locket bouncing on his thin chest as he patted Draco’s wrist in passing. “Shoes off, if you please, Master Draco, and hands washed before dinner,” he croaked, returning to tending the cauldron. On the wall beside the grate, a number of old-fashioned robes that had been freshly laundered hung in an orderly row.

“Any news?” Ron asked, looking up at Draco and setting down his quill. He and Hermione had been poring over a sheaf of scribbled notes and hand-drawn maps that littered the end of the long kitchen table, but now they watched Draco as he strode toward them, holding up the newspaper.

“Yes, actually,” Draco replied, toeing off his boots and removing his glamour before he obeyed Kreacher’s request to wash his hands. Tossing the Daily Prophet onto the table, he moved to sit across from the other two. From the hallway, Sirius’ footsteps were heard coming downstairs to join them, no doubt lured by the delicious scents of Kreacher’s cooking. “Frontpage news.”

Hermione unrolled the paper, and startled at once; Draco nodded in agreement to her reaction. “Severus has been named Hogwarts’ Headmaster,” he said, looking over at Sirius as the older man made a surprised noise as he entered. “They’ve added some new ‘teachers,’ too, and I say it in that tone because it’s all Death Eaters who’ve been placed there.” Draco grimaced. “The Carrows, among others.”

“I remember them,” Sirius said grimly, pouring himself some pumpkin juice before sitting down. “Nothing on our dear aunt, of course, but they certainly didn’t endear themselves to anyone else in Azkaban. Sadists, the both of them.”

“They’re far from the only ones,” Draco agreed wearily. “Well, at least we know Severus is safe and still securely undercover...I just hope he’s able to keep up with all this. And keep the students protected.”

Kreacher began serving up bowls of steaming, mouth-watering stew, and Sirius glanced at the notes and pages that Hermione was shuffling out of the way in order to eat. “No need, Hermione--you lot best keep working,” Sirius advised, rising from the bench. “Kreacher, could you put mine on a tray?” As the elf nodded and hopped away, Sirius smiled at Draco’s apologetic look. “None of that, cousin. I told you--this may be my home, but to my mind, Dumbledore’s orders are the ones that take precedence. You three only tell me anything I need to know--otherwise, back to your work.”

Once he had excused himself, Hermione began laying everything back out, distractedly eating between re-reading and jotting extra notes.

“I think it’s been better for Sirius than for the house itself, everyone making peace like this,” Ron remarked very quietly, his eyes on Kreacher as he bobbed around, tending the fire and paying them no mind. “Makes me feel less sad about him having to stay here, too, once we head out.” Draco nodded, his smile twisting in terse agreement; it _was_ a huge relief that they wouldn’t be abandoning Sirius back to miserable silence with only a hostile old elf for company.

“That reminds me, kind of--Draco, I thought of what you’d said, about talking to the portrait of Headmaster Phineas Nigellus, when we first came here,” Hermione said, refocusing on the boys. “I actually took it off of the wall of that room, and placed it inside of my handbag for when we leave. It’d be nice to have a link to here, but...well, it accesses the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. So...we could potentially use it to reach out to Snape, if Nigellus is amenable.”

“I don’t know if he will be, but it’s certainly worth trying,” Draco agreed. “Brilliant, Hermione. As usual. Oh, and I didn’t so much as glimpse Umbridge, but Ron, your dad looked well and fine, all considered.”

Ron nodded his appreciation of this update. They had agreed that it was far too dangerous to try and communicate with Arthur while he walked in and out of the Ministry, because he was always surrounded by other Ministry workers and they couldn't be sure which people he trusted. It was, however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him, even if he did look very strained and anxious.

“Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work,” Ron remarked. “That’s probably why we haven’t seen Umbridge, she’d never walk, she’d think she’s too important.”

“And what about that funny old witch and that little wizard in the navy robes?” Hermione asked, frowning at one of her scribbled-on sheets of parchment.

“Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance,” Ron confirmed around a mouthful of stew.

“How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?” Hermione asked, her soup spoon suspended in midair.

“Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes.”

“But you never told us that!” Hermione dropped her spoon and pulled toward her the rest of the notes and maps that she and Ron had been examining when Draco had first gotten back. “There’s nothing in here about navy blue robes, nothing!” she said, flipping feverishly through the pages. “Ron! If we’re going to get into the Ministry and not give ourselves away when they’re bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little detail matters! We’ve been over and over this, I mean, what’s the point of all these reconnaissance trips if you aren’t even bothering to tell us—”

“Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing—”

“You do realize, don’t you, that there’s probably no more dangerous place in the whole world for us to be right now than the Ministry of—”

“I think we should do it tomorrow,” Draco stated suddenly, cutting through Hermione’s stuttering as if he hadn’t realized she was ranting.

Hermione stopped dead, her jaw hanging; Ron choked a little over his soup. “Tomorrow?” repeated Hermione. “You aren’t serious, Draco?”

“I absolutely am,” he replied firmly. “I don’t think we’re going to be much better prepared than we are now, even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we put it off, the farther away that locket could be. There’s already a good chance Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn’t open.”

“Unless,” Ron countered, “she’s found a way of opening it and she’s now possessed.”

“Wouldn’t make a difference with her, she was so evil in the first place,” Draco said lightly. Hermione was biting her lip, deep in thought and staring at his face as if she could glean his reasoning just from looking at him.

“We know everything important,” Draco went on, addressing Hermione primarily. “We know they’ve stopped Apparition in and out of the Ministry. We know only the most senior Ministry members are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now, because Ron heard those two Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know roughly where Umbridge’s office is, because of what you heard that bearded bloke saying to his mate—”

“ _‘I’ll be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me,_ ’” Hermione recited immediately, and Draco would have leaned across the table and kissed her for her instinctive academic excellence; it took real willpower to refrain.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “And we know that you enter using those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are, because I saw that witch borrowing one from her friend—”

“But we haven’t got any!”

“If the plan works as we’ve worked out, then we will have them,” Draco continued calmly. Of this, he felt more certain than he had in weeks. The time for planning was ending; the next step was to take action.

“I don’t know, Draco, I just don’t know...there are an awful lot of things that could go wrong, so much relies on chance...”

“That’ll be true even if we spend another three months preparing,” Draco reminded her gently. “It’s time for us to get moving, Hermione.”

He could tell from Ron’s and Hermione’s faces that they were both scared; he was not particularly confident himself, and yet he _was_ sure that they needed to put their plan into operation. They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the official entrance to the Ministry--which Ron, thanks to Mr. Weasley, had known the location of since childhood.

They had tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped on their conversations, and learned by careful observation which of them could be relied upon to appear, alone, at the same time every day. Occasionally there had been a chance to sneak a Daily Prophet out of somebody’s briefcase. Slowly they had built up the sketchy maps and notes now stacked in front of Hermione, and Draco was certain that this was as far as planning would take them.

“All right,” Ron said slowly. “Let’s say we go for it tomorrow...I think it should just be me and Draco.”

“Oh, don’t start that again!” Hermione sighed, sounding nearly like Molly Weasley in her exasperation with Ron. “I thought we’d settled this.”

“Look, it’s one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak, but this is different, ‘Mione.” Ron jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously. “You’re on the list of Muggleborns who didn’t present themselves for interrogation!”

“And you’re supposed to be dying of spattergroit at the Burrow!” she shot back, fired up and ready for this fight once more. “Really, if anyone shouldn’t go, it’s Draco, he’s supposed to be dead and if they _catch_ him—”

“Fine, I’ll stay here,” Draco interjected, half-smiling. “Let me know if you defeat Riddle while you’re in there, won’t you?”

Hermione’s expression spasmed as if unsure if she’d found that funny or not; Ron, however, barked a laugh, and after a moment she seemed to crumble, and gave a soft chuckle of her own, sticking her tongue out at Draco when he grinned at her smugly, pleased that he’d eased the tension.

“Oh, alright,” she said, shaking her head in bemusement. “If all three of us are going, then we’ll have to Disapparate separately.” She smiled a little bittersweetly. “We can’t all fit under the Cloak, like Ron and Harry and I used to.”

“Easier times,” Ron agreed dryly. “Well, if we’re going to the Ministry tomorrow...I reckon we should go over the plan from top to finish, till we all three have every detail down.”

They settled in to read and re-read and quiz each other as Kreacher served them all treacle tart and cream for dessert before trotting away to take some upstairs for Sirius. The three of them did not get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going over and over their plan until they could recite it to each other, word perfect, without needing to check their notes.

When they did crawl back into their sleeping bags in the upstairs drawing room, the fire crackling merrily and Hermione’s hand tucked under Draco’s pillow as it had come to be every night, Draco closed his eyes, wanting to let sleep carry him away quickly.

But as he lay in the firelit darkness, there was a sudden burst of stinging pain on his arm; Draco’s mouth opened in a soundless gasp, reflexively biting back the noise of pain to keep from waking the other two, already blessedly asleep.

He raised his arm, squinting in the flickering warm light; Draco was nearly certain, peering at it, that the Dark Mark was standing out distinctly against his pale skin, the way that it did when any of the others who bore it touched it in a summons. Or, worse still, when Riddle himself was feeling some particularly volatile emotion, his feelings rippling across his followers’ awareness through the ugly connection that the Mark forced them to share with him.Draco lowered his arm and closed his eyes tightly again, willing his mind to purge itself of fear and _what if’s_ and let him sleep. What they were going to attempt tomorrow was the next step for him, and there was no sense worrying otherwise. But even knowing that, Draco fell fitfully into a restless sleep, knowing that somewhere out there, Voldemort was on the move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author-drawn art for this story can be found on tumblr under the tag "The Iron Sky!"
> 
> Current chapter art: https://minxchester.tumblr.com/post/190954055951/any-news-ron-asked-looking-up-at-draco-and


	32. Jump Into the Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There was no trace of the warmth and welcome that Draco had associated with the Ministry throughout his childhood, a beacon of the power and protection that the magical government represented for its citizens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only hope that you all love this story even half as passionately as Hardy and I do. <3

Dawn arrived with indecent haste. “You look terrible,” was Ron’s greeting as he returned to the drawing room to wake Draco after dressing and brushing his teeth.

“Not for long,” Draco replied, yawning as he helped Ron roll up the sleeping bags like they did each morning. He had the vague thought that they ought to pack it all into Hermione’s bag, just in case; but it also felt as if doing so would be jinxing themselves. The plan they had so carefully worked out was intended to conclude with them coming safely back to Grimmauld Place, and they could pack their bedding then.

They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen, being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and wearing the slightly manic expression that Draco associated with exam review. 

“Robes,” she was muttering under her breath, acknowledging their presence with a quick nod and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag. “Polyjuice Potion...Invisibility Cloak...Decoy Detonators...you should each take a couple just in case....Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears...”

They gulped down their breakfast, then went back upstairs to change and prepare to leave. Kreacher bowed them out, promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they returned.

Sirius was emerging from his bedroom as they collected all of their supplies and returned to the landing. “Whatever it is you’re doing...be careful. And stick together,” he advised, and Draco could see the spark of worry in his cousin’s eyes. It was no doubt extremely disorienting for him, letting the three teenagers go off to do something that he only knew would be dangerous, while having no means of helping them or ensuring their success.

They each hugged him tightly, and then the trio moved to the front hallway in order to Disapparate, one at a time, from the top step to their destination. Draco went last, pausing to grip his glamour charm and utter the spell before following Ron and Hermione into the twisting darkness once his appearance was transformed.

For their arrival point, they had chosen a tiny alleyway across the lane from the public entrance to the Ministry, which they had selected after multiple, very cautious scouting trips. At present, it was deserted aside from a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not usually appear here until at least eight o’clock, giving the three of them a moment to orient themselves in preparation.

“Right then,” Hermione whispered, checking her watch. Draco doubted that anyone was even remotely within hearing range of the alley, but Hermione looked pale and tense, and he knew that she was too afraid to speak up louder. “She ought to be here in about five minutes. When I’ve Stunned her—”

“Hermione, we know the plan,” Ron cut her off sternly. “Stop panicking. And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?”

Hermione gasped, almost dropping her beaded bag. “I nearly forgot! Stand back—”

She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they knew from their previous trips, into an empty theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to make it look as though it was still closed. “And now,” she went on, turning back to face the other two in the alleyway. “--we put on the Cloak again—”

“—and we wait,” Ron finished the thought, throwing the Cloak over Hermione’s head like a blanket over a birdcage, and rolling his eyes fondly in Draco’s direction. Despite the tension of their situation, Draco had to grin back at him, because they both knew and appreciated Hermione’s exaggerated diligence where planning and execution were concerned.

About a minute later, there was a tiny pop, and a little Ministry witch with flyaway gray hair Apparated feet from them, blinking a little at the sudden brightness; the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. She barely had time to enjoy the unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione’s silent Stunning Spell hit her in the chest and she toppled over.

“Nicely done, Hermione,” Ron praised, emerging from behind a bin beside the theater door as Draco shrugged off the Invisibility Cloak. Together they carried the little witch into the dark passageway that led backstage. Hermione plucked a few hairs from the witch’s head and added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion she had taken from the beaded bag.

Ron was rummaging through the little witch’s handbag. “She’s Mafalda Hopkirk,” he reported, reading a small card that identified their first target as an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. “You’d better take this, Hermione--and here are the tokens.”

He passed her several small golden coins, all embossed with the letters M.O.M., which he had taken from the witch’s purse. Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now a pleasant heliotrope color--and within seconds she stood before them, a perfect replica of Mafalda Hopkirk.

As she removed Mafalda’s spectacles and put them on, Draco checked his watch. “We’re running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any second.” The trio hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda; Draco and Ron threw the Invisibility Cloak over themselves while Hermione remained in view, waiting.

Seconds later there was another pop, and a small, ferrety-looking wizard appeared before them. “Oh, hello, Mafalda.”

“Hello!” Hermione replied in a quavery voice. “How are you today?” 

“Not so good, actually,” replied the little wizard, who looked thoroughly downcast. As Hermione and the wizard headed for the main road together, Draco and Ron crept along behind them, careful to remain completely unseen underneath the Cloak.

“I’m sorry to hear you’re under the weather,” Hermione said, talking firmly over the little wizard as he tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential to stop him from reaching the street. “Here, have a sweet.”

“Eh? Oh, no thanks—”

“I insist!” Hermione said rather aggressively, shaking the bag of pastilles in his face.

Looking rather alarmed by her intensity, the little wizard took one. The effect was instantaneous. The moment the pastille touched his tongue, the little wizard started vomiting so hard that he did  not even notice as Hermione yanked a handful of hairs from the top of his head.

“Oh dear!” she cried as he splattered the alley with sick. “Perhaps you’d better take the day off!”

“No—no!” He choked and retched, trying to continue on his way despite being unable to walk straight. “I must—today—must go in—”

“But that’s just silly!” Hermione gasped, alarmed. She couldn’t help shooting a scared glance back towards the invisible boys, but they had no means of helping her address this potential hurdle. “You can’t go to work in this state—I think you ought to go to St. Mungo’s and get them to sort you out!” The wizard had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still trying to crawl toward the main street. “You simply can’t go to work like this!” cried Hermione.

At last he seemed to accept the truth of her words. Using a repulsed Hermione to claw his way back into a standing position, he turned on the spot and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the bag that Ron snatched from his hand as he went.

“Urgh,” Hermione grumbled, holding up the skirts of her robe to avoid the puddles of sick. “It would have made much less mess to Stun him too.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, emerging from under the Cloak holding out the wizard’s bag. “But I still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention. Keen on his job, though, isn’t he? Chuck us the hair and the potion, then.”

Within two minutes, Ron stood before them, as small and ferrety as the sick wizard, and wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag. “Weird he wasn’t wearing them today, wasn’t it, seeing how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I’m Reg Cattermole, according to the label on the tag.”

“Now wait here,” Hermione told Draco, who was still under the Invisibility Cloak. “And we’ll be back with some hairs for you.”

He had to wait ten minutes; but it seemed much longer to Draco, hiding alone in the sick-splattered alleyway beside the door concealing the Stunned Mafalda. Alone with his thoughts, he found himself thinking of Reg Cattermole, wondering why he had been so keen to come to work today, even risking his own health when he had become violently ill thanks to the sweets. Draco frowned a little, a small unpleasant tingling sensation tickling at the back of his neck, as if something was warning him of some kind of danger, something they didn’t foresee.

Finally Ron and Hermione reappeared. “We don’t know who he is,” Hermione told him, passing Draco several curly black hairs. “But he’s gone home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he’s pretty tall, you’ll need bigger robes....”

She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had laundered for them, and Draco went to take the potion and change. It was rather humorous to apply another disguise on top of the one produced by his glamour charm--but it was still necessary. His unfamiliar face could protect his real identity, in general; but for this mission, they all needed to be very recognizable, known and respectable Ministry employees.

Once the painful transformation was complete, Draco was more than six feet tall and, from what he could tell from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built. He also had a beard.

Stowing the Invisibility Cloak inside his new robes, he rejoined the other two. “Blimey, that’s scary,” Ron remarked, looking up at Draco, who now towered over him. “I definitely prefer being taller than you, mate, I will say.”

“Take one of Mafalda’s tokens,” Hermione told Draco softly. She glanced over at Ron, who was distracted seemingly getting used to his new physique, and Hermione lowered her voice as she looked back at Draco with a tremulous little smile. “You look handsome like this, too,” she told him, making Draco chuckle. “Though I definitely prefer your real face.”

Smiling back, Draco gave her hand a quick squeeze before Hermione straightened and moved to rejoin Ron.“Alright, let’s go, it’s nearly nine.” They stepped out of the alleyway all together. Fifty yards along the crowded pavement there were spiked black railings flanking two flights of steps, one labeled  _ gentlemen, _ the other  _ ladies. _

“See you in a moment, then,” Hermione murmured nervously, and she tottered off down the steps to _ ladies. _ Draco and Ron joined a number of robe-wearing men descending into what appeared to be an ordinary underground public toilet, tiled in grimy black and white. 

“Morning, Reg!” called another wizard in navy blue robes as he let himself into a cubicle by inserting his golden token into a slot in the door. “Blooming pain in the bum, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Ruddy power play--just rubbing it in our faces that they control everything now. Think they’re so much better than us lowly grunts.” The wizard rolled his eyes, clapping Ron on the shoulder before heading into his stall.

Ron managed a forced chuckle in response. “Yeah,” he stuttered, “Stupid, isn’t it?”

He and Draco let themselves into adjoining cubicles. To Draco’s left and right came the sound of flushing. He crouched down and peered through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair of booted feet climbing into the toilet next door. Looking left, he saw Ron blinking at him under their divider. “We have to flush ourselves in?” he whispered, bewildered.

“Looks like it,” Draco whispered back; his voice came out deep and gravelly, clear even when speaking softly.

They both stood up, and Draco grimaced. This was a far cry from the phone-box-lift that guests used to enter, or the dignified experience of being permitted to Floo directly into the Atrium or any of the offices, or any of the other ways that Draco had ever used when coming here with his father.

It was an odd thing to miss Lucius over...though he supposed the nostalgia was more about the days before war had ruined everything than about his father himself.

Feeling rather foolish, Draco clambered into the toilet. He knew at once that he had done the right thing, however; although he appeared to be standing in water, his shoes, feet, and robes remained quite dry. He reached up, pulled the chain, and the next moment had zoomed down a short chute, emerging out of a fireplace into the Ministry of Magic.

He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body than he was accustomed to, even more so than the added height of his glamoured figure. The enormous Atrium seemed darker than Draco ever remembered it being, and unexpectedly grim and cold. For a moment, it reminded him disturbingly of Malfoy Manor, and Draco sucked in a breath, his eyes tracking over the drastic changes that had been made since his last visit to the Ministry.

Previously, a golden fountain had filled the center of the hall, casting shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden floor and walls. Now a gigantic statue of black stone dominated the scene. It was looming and intimidating, this vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words  _ Magic Is Might. _

Unexpectedly Draco received a heavy blow on the back of the legs: another wizard had just flown out of the fireplace behind him. “Out of the way, can’t y—oh, sorry, Runcorn!”

Clearly frightened at the sight of him, the balding wizard hurried away. Apparently the man whom Draco was impersonating, Runcorn, was a daunting presence. Frowning slightly, Draco realized he was going into this very blind; he knew nothing of this Runcorn man, and he couldn’t think of a time in his memories when Lucius had mentioned--

Wait a minute.

In the few seconds it took for the balding wizard to hurry away, Draco summoned some of his power at his core; wandless and wordless magic combined was a tricky situation. Anything could go wrong. But he needed all the information he could get, and thus, drawing on Severus’ teachings, he allowed his emotions to be dampened, for his mind to be opened, and with intense concentration he finally felt his mind connect to those around him.

Anyone who looked at Runcorn, he now saw, immediately provided him with the image of a tall, brooding man. The impressions seemed to be that he was one who didn’t talk too often; but he knew how to get threats across or get things handled.

In other words, he was simply a far more physically intimidating version of Lucius Malfoy.  _ Brilliant, _ Draco thought to himself a bit bitterly.  _ This will be easy enough. _

“Psst!” came a voice, and he looked around to see a wispy little witch and the ferrety wizard from Magical Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the statue. Draco hastened to join them. “You got in all right, then?” Hermione whispered to Draco.

“No, he’s still stuck in the bog,” Ron quipped, and Draco couldn’t help smiling at the redhead for his unceasing efforts at levity.

“Oh, very funny...It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Hermione said to Draco, nodding back at the statue. “Have you seen what they’re sitting on?”

Draco looked more closely; with a disgusted jolt in his gut, he realized that what he had thought were decoratively carved thrones were actually mounds of carved humans. There were hundreds and hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the handsomely robed wizards.

“Muggles,” Hermione whispered sadly. “In their rightful place. Come on, let’s get going...I want to get away from that horrid display.”

They joined the stream of witches and wizards moving toward the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking around as surreptitiously as possible. But there was no sign of the distinctive, squat figure of Dolores Umbridge--only frightened employees, and stoic-faced uniformed witches and wizards lining the Atrium. There was no trace of the warmth and welcome that Draco had associated with the Ministry throughout his childhood, a beacon of the power and protection that the magical government represented for its citizens.

They passed through the gates and into a smaller hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty golden grilles that housed the lifts. They had only just joined the nearest one when a rather irritated voice boomed out, “Cattermole!”

All three of them looked around: Draco’s stomach turned over. One of the Death Eaters who had witnessed Dumbledore’s death was striding towards them. The Ministry workers beside them fell silent, their eyes turning downcast at once; Draco could tangibly feel the fear rippling through the group. The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with gold thread.

Someone in the crowd around the lifts called sycophantically, “Morning, Yaxley!” and was thoroughly ignored by the man himself. “I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, Cattermole. It’s still raining in there.”

Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else would intervene, but nobody else spoke. “Raining...in your office? That’s—that’s not good, is it?” Ron gave a nervous laugh.

Yaxley’s eyes widened. “You think it’s funny, Cattermole, do you?”

A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the lift and bustled off, and it felt as if the temperature actually dropped several degrees around them. “No,” Ron managed, his voice shaking a little. “No, of course—”

“You realize that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I’m quite surprised you’re not down there holding her hand while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job, have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a pureblood next time.”

And that, Draco realized, was why Cattermole had been so desperate to come to work, and not even in his work robes. He had come to try and support his wife…And they had just sent the man to St. Mungo’s, while his wife was awaiting interrogation, no doubt wondering fearfully where her husband was. Hermione had let out a little squeak of horror, and paled at her own slip. Yaxley looked her way, and she coughed feebly and turned away.

“I—I—” Ron stammered, clearly at a loss.

“But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood,” Yaxley went on, talking over him, “—not that any woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth—and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job doing, I would make it my priority to do that job, Cattermole. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Ron whispered, his face white as a sheet now. Draco was thinking fast, trying to find any means of helping him--even if it was just diverting the full force of Yaxley’s focus from Ron--but he did not know how to, especially if Runcorn was likelier to endorse the Death Eater than speak up for a Maintenance worker. And he didn’t even dare try looking into Yaxley’s mind; no doubt the man would be at least minimally skilled at shielding his thoughts.

“Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within an hour, your wife’s Blood Status will be in even graver doubt than it is now.”

The golden grille before them clattered open. With a nod and unpleasant smile to Draco--as he’d suspected, Runcorn was evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of Cattermole--Yaxley swept away toward another lift.

Draco, Ron, and Hermione entered theirs, but nobody else followed them. It was as if they had been rendered infectious by the unpleasant encounter. The grilles shut with a clang and the lift began to move upward. “What am I going to do?” Ron asked the other two at once; he looked stricken. “If I don’t turn up, my wife—I mean, Cattermole’s wife—”

“We’ll come with you, of course, we should stick together—” Hermione began reassuringly, but Ron shook his head feverishly, stopping her.

“That’s mental, we haven’t got much time. You two find Umbridge, I’ll go and sort out Yaxley’s office—but how do I stop it raining?”

“Try  _ Finite Incantatem,” _ Hermione said at once. “That should stop the rain if it’s a hex or curse; if it doesn’t, something’s gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm, which will be more difficult to fix, so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his belongings—”

“Say it again, more slowly—” Ron muttered, searching his pockets desperately for a quill.

But at that moment the lift juddered to a halt. A disembodied female voice said, “Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advi-sory Bureau,” and the grilles slid open again, admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the ceiling of the lift.

“Morning, Albert,” a bushily-whiskered man said, smiling at Draco. He glanced over at Ron and Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more; Hermione was now whispering frantic instructions to Ron, who was scrawling them down messily on a scrap of parchment she’d conjured. The wizard leaned toward Draco, leering, and muttered, “Dirk Cresswell, eh? From Goblin Liaison? Nice one, Albert. I’m pretty confident I’ll get his job now!”

He winked as he finished speaking. Draco just smiled stiffly back, hoping that this would suffice, because he had no words. Apparently Runcorn really was a heartless bastard.

The lift stopped, and the grilles opened once more. “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services,” said the disembodied witch’s voice.

Draco saw Hermione give Ron a little push and he hurried out of the lift, followed by the other wizards, leaving Draco and Hermione alone in the box.

The moment the golden door had closed, though, Hermione said, very fast, “Actually, I think I’d better go after him, I don’t think he knows what he’s doing and if he gets caught the whole thing—”

“Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff.” The golden grilles slid apart again, and Hermione gasped. Draco did not need any clarification to understand why. Four people stood before them, two of them deep in conversation: a long-haired wizard wearing magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair and clutching a clipboard to her chest.

“Ah, Mafalda!” Umbridge chirped, looking at Hermione with the same despicable, too-wide and obnoxiously-fake smile that she had worn so often at Hogwarts. Draco wanted to hex that stupid expression right off of her doughy face. “Travers sent you, did he?”

“Y-yes,” Hermione squeaked, looking borderline green around the gills.

“Good, you’ll do perfectly well.” Umbridge turned to speak again to the wizard in black and gold. “That’s that problem solved, Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping we shall be able to start straightaway.” She consulted her clipboard. “Ten people today--and one of them is the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut...even here, in the heart of the Ministry!”

She stepped into the lift beside Hermione, as did the two wizards who had been listening to Umbridge’s conversation with the Minister. “We’ll go straight down, Mafalda, you’ll find everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning, Albert; aren’t you getting out?”

“Yes, of course,” Draco made himself reply in Runcorn’s deep voice. He stepped out of the lift and the golden grilles clanged shut behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Draco saw Hermione’s anxious face sinking back out of sight, a tall wizard on either side of her, Umbridge’s velvet hair-bow level with her shoulder.

“What brings you up here, Runcorn?” asked the new Minister of Magic. His long black hair and beard were streaked with silver, and a great overhanging forehead shadowed his glinting eyes, putting Draco in mind of a crab looking out from beneath a rock. The last time he had been this close to Thicknesse had been the night Lucius had brought him, fifth year. This time, though, Draco was a good foot taller than the blank-eyed Death Eater puppet.

Draco did not know much about what it was like to be under the Imperius Curse. He wondered, suddenly, if Thicknesse was aware of himself at all, or knew that he was a prisoner inside his own skull, being used to manage Tom Riddle’s mastery over the Ministry, and by extension, the wizarding community. Tentatively, warily--it was a risk, a monumental one, but Draco felt almost compelled by curiosity--he tried to look into Thicknesse’s mind. There was no barrier, nothing in place to protect the older wizard’s thoughts or feelings...but there was also nothing visible.

It was as if all that Draco could see was fog, swirling and empty, not even a shadow of anything concrete that could be coaxed into view.

He withdrew and refocused, pity for the other man stinging in his chest. “Needed a quick word with,” Draco hesitated for a fraction of a second. “...Arthur Weasley. Someone said he was up on level one.”

“Ah.” Thicknesse nodded. “Has he been caught having contact with an Undesirable?”

“No,” Draco replied, his throat dry.  _ What the bloody hell was an Undesirable? _ “No, nothing like that.”

“Ah, well. It’s only a matter of time,” Thicknesse said knowingly. “If you ask me, the blood traitors are as bad as the Mudbloods. Good day, Runcorn.”

“Good day, Minister.” Draco watched Thicknesse wander away along the thickly carpeted corridor, wishing he had even an inkling of an idea for how to rescue the man from the way that he was being used. The moment the Minister had passed out of sight, Draco tugged the Invisibility Cloak out from under his heavy black robes, threw it over himself, and set off along the corridor in the opposite direction. Runcorn was so tall that Draco was forced to stoop more than he did as himself in order to make sure that his big feet were hidden.

Panic was pulsing in the pit of his stomach. As he passed gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with the owner’s name and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry--its complexity, its impenetrability--seemed to force itself upon him so that the plan he had been carefully concocting with Ron and Hermione over the past four weeks seemed laughably childish.

They had concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without being detected: They had not given a moment’s thought to what they would do if they were forced to separate. Now Hermione was stuck in court proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours; Ron was struggling to do magic that Draco was sure was beyond him, with a woman’s liberty possibly depending on the outcome; and he, Draco, was wandering around on the top floor when he knew perfectly well that his quarry had just gone down in the lift along with his girlfriend.

He stopped walking, leaned against a wall, and tried to decide on what to do. The silence pressed in upon him. There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here; the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as though the Muffliato charm had been cast over the entire place.

Umbridge’s office must be up here, Draco realized. It seemed highly unlikely that Umbridge would keep her jewelry in her office; but on the other hand, it also seemed foolish not to search it, just to make sure. With renewed resolve, he set off along the corridor again, passing nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring instructions to a quill that floated in front of him, scribbling on a trail of parchment.

Now paying proper attention to the names on the doors, Draco turned a corner. Halfway along the next corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks.

Draco paused to watch them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and squares of colored paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Draco realized that there was a rhythm to the proceedings, that the papers all formed the same pattern; and after a few more seconds he realized that what he was watching was the creation of pamphlets—that the paper squares were pages, which, when assembled, folded, and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.

Creeping closer--although the workers were so intent on what they were doing that he doubted they would notice a carpet-muffled footstep--he slid a completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch and examined it beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:  _ MUDBLOODS and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society.  _ Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl.

There was no author’s name upon the pamphlet; but Draco felt an unpleasant prickling in the sleeve-covered ink of the Dark Mark on his arm as he examined it. He didn’t need to see the bitch’s name to know that only someone with Umbridge’s version of logic could be behind this garbage.

The young witch at the desk beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still waving and twirling her wand, “Will the old hag be interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?”

“Careful,” the wizard beside her cautioned, glancing around nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the floor.

“What, has she got magic ears on us now?” The witch scoffed, glancing contemptuously toward the shining mahogany door directly facing the space full of pamphlet-makers. “Come off it. We’re fine when she isn’t up on this level.”

He did not want to keep the pamphlet, but Draco wasn’t going to risk anyone spotting an invisible hand placing it back on the stack--and he knew that he might as well show Ron and Hermione the kind of ridiculous bullshit that Umbridge was using her position of power to produce. Pocketing it with a grimace, he turned towards the door that the witch had gestured at. Padding across the carpet silently, Draco got close enough to read the plaque.

_ Dolores Umbridge _

_ Senior Undersecretary to the Minister  _

Below that, a slightly shinier, newer plaque read: 

_ Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission _

Draco glanced back at the dozen pamphlet-makers; though they were intent upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door of an empty office opened in front of them. From an inner pocket of his robes, Draco withdrew an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a body.

Crouching down beneath the Cloak, he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground. It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments later, during which Draco waited with his hand upon the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great deal of acrid black smoke billowed from a corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, looking around for the source of the commotion. Draco turned the doorknob, stepped swiftly into Umbridge’s office and closed the door behind him.

He felt at once as if he had stepped back in time.

The room was exactly like Umbridge’s office at Hogwarts had been, down to every last ugly detail. Lace draperies, doilies, and dried flowers covered every available surface. The walls bore the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with sickening wannabe-cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered cloth.

On the back of the door he found a telescopic attachment, which apparently enabled Umbridge to spy on the workers on the other side of the door; Draco took a look through it and saw that they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He still had a few moments.

Draco turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, “Accio Locket.” Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms and spells for her personal property. He therefore hurried behind her desk and began pulling open the drawers left and right, searching at random.

He saw quills and notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer and had to be beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair bows and clips; but there was no sign of a locket, real or Horcrux.

There was a filing cabinet behind the desk, and Draco set to searching it next. Like Filch’s filing cabinets in his little broom cupboard-office at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a name. It was not until Draco reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract him from his search: Mr. Weasley’s name on one file. He pulled it out and opened it.

_ ARTHUR WEASLEY _

  * _Blood status: Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of the Phoenix_



  * _Family: Wife (Pureblood)_


  * Seven children, two youngest at Hogwarts. 


  * NB: Youngest son currently at home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have confirmed. 


  * Security status: TRACKED. All movements are being monitored. 


  * High possibility of contact with Undesirables.



“Undesirables,” Draco muttered under his breath as he replaced Arthur’s folder and shut the drawer. Context was giving him clues as to what that meant. No doubt the list included almost everybody who Draco cared about, besides his parents and Severus.

If he hadn’t been “dead,” maybe he’d have been their number one Undesirable by now.

He was closing the cabinet drawers back up, one by one, when another file caught his eye in the  _ N _ through  _ S _ section. Draco paused for a long heartbeat. Then he carefully flipped through the folder edges until he found the one that had stopped him:  _ Potter, H. _

The contents were scarce; documents summarizing the circumstances of Harry being orphaned and raised by Muggle relatives, and then coming to Hogwarts. Across the photograph of Harry--it was one of the promotional ones from the Triwizard Tournament, posed and stiff and Harry looked miserable in it--the word  _ Deceased _ was stamped in thick, bright red letters.

Everything written in the folder appeared to be from a more pro-Voldemort stance, Draco couldn’t help noticing; it made it sound as if Harry had been a low-level vigilante, and that it was better that he was gone now. Draco’s fingers trailed down the page to where it marked the date of death--June 24, 1995, Little Hangleton--and he sighed quietly, closing the folder and putting it back in its place.

Moving around the desk, Draco’s gaze was skating over the surface when he paused, noticing that one of the ornate frames was not just more bouncing kittens or Umbridge standing pompously with various Ministry staff members.

The faces in this photograph were intensely familiar to Draco, some more dear than others; he picked up the frame, staring at the politely-smiling members of the Inquisitorial Squad from their fifth year. Draco knew that it was only because he was self-aware, but he couldn’t help smirking a little at the hint of irritation that he found fully visible in his, Pansy’s, and Theo’s faces as they tolerated being flanked by--his stomach rolled--Crabbe, on one side, and Umbridge herself on the other.

There was a tiny pink sticky note adhered delicately to the corner of the frame, and Draco’s lip curled when he saw Umbridge’s childish, curling handwriting. The words themselves made him outright roll his eyes:  _ “A true martyr; strive for the loyalty that Draco Malfoy once had.” _

“You pretentious, fake, absurd bitch,” Draco muttered, shaking his head as he made himself return the frame to its place without tearing up the stupid note. “I’d rather you just forget I existed than have anything ‘good’ to say about me.”

More annoyed than ever, Draco proceeded to grope in the bottoms of the vases and baskets of dried flowers, but was not at all surprised that the locket was not there. He gave the office one last sweeping look--and then his heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore was staring at him from a small rectangular mirror, propped up on a bookcase beside the desk. Draco crossed the room in two strides and snatched it up, but realized the moment he touched it that it was not a mirror after all; Dumbledore was smiling wistfully out of the front cover of a glossy book.

Draco had not immediately noticed the curly green writing across his hat _ —The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore— _ nor the slightly smaller writing across his chest:  _ “by Rita Skeeter, best-selling author of Armando Dippet: Master or Moron? _

Opening the book at random, Draco found a full-page photograph of two teenage boys, both laughing delightedly, with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Dumbledore, with elbow-length auburn hair, had grown a tiny wispy beard that revealed his youthful age in the image. The boy who roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a gleeful, wild look about him, and his golden hair fell in curls to his shoulders.

Draco wondered idly whether it was a young Doge; but before he could check the caption, the door of the office opened.

If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder as he entered, Draco would not have had time to pull the Invisibility Cloak over himself. As it was, he thought Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of movement, because for a moment or two he remained quite still, staring curiously at the place where Draco had just vanished.

Perhaps deciding that all he had seen was Dumbledore scratching his nose on the front of the book that Draco had hastily placed back on the shelf, Thicknesse finally walked to the desk and pointed his wand at the quill standing ready in the ink pot. It sprang out and began scribbling a note to Umbridge. Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Draco backed out of the office into the open area beyond.

The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. Draco hurried off up the corridor as the young witch from before said, “I bet it snuck up here from Experimental Charms, they’re so careless, remember that poisonous duck?”

Hurrying back toward the lifts, Draco mentally reviewed his options. It had never been likely that the locket was here at the Ministry, and there was no hope of bewitching its whereabouts out of Umbridge while she was sitting in a crowded court. Their priority now had to be to leave the Ministry before they were exposed, and try again another day; with every minute that passed, the risk increased of either the Polyjuice Potion wearing off, or the real individuals who they were impersonating turning up at work assuming that they’d been missed.

The first thing to do was to find Ron, and then they could work out a way of extracting Hermione from the courtroom.

The lift was empty when it arrived. Draco strode in and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak as it started moving, putting it away hastily to make sure that no one on the levels that he was descending past saw it in his hands.

To his enormous relief, when the lift rattled to a halt at level two, a soaking-wet and wild-eyed Ron got in beside him, shivering rather violently. “M-morning,” he stammered to Draco as the lift set off again; he very clearly didn’t actually register who he was looking at, let alone recognize the borrowed face.

“Ron, it’s me, it’s Draco,” he murmured. He pulled out his wand, quickly muttering a spell to try and dry Ron off some before he could catch a bloody cold.

“Draco! Blimey, I forgot what you looked like—why isn’t Hermione with you?” Ron asked, smiling gratefully as his shivering subsided.

“She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge, she couldn’t refuse, and—”

But before Draco could finish explaining, the lift had stopped again. The doors opened, and this time it was Arthur Weasley who walked inside, talking to an elderly witch whose blonde hair was teased so high it resembled an anthill. “...I quite understand what you’re saying, Wanda, but I’m afraid I cannot be party to—”

Arthur broke off; he had noticed Draco. It was very strange to have the older man, who he trusted and respected so deeply, glare at Draco with that much dislike.

The lift doors closed and the four of them trundled downward once more. “Oh, hello, Reg,” Arthur said to Ron, looking around at the sound of steady dripping from his incompletely-dried robes. “Isn’t your wife in for questioning today? Er—and what’s happened to you? Why are you so wet?”

“Yaxley’s office is raining,” Ron said hoarsely. He was addressing Arthur’s shoulder, and Draco felt sure that he was scared that his father might recognize him if they looked directly into each other’s eyes. “I couldn’t stop it, so they’ve sent me to get Bernie—Pillsworth, I think they said—”

“Yes, a lot of offices have been raining lately,” Arthur said wearily, nodding as if this was a perfectly normal phenomenon to be discussing in the office lift. “Did you try  _ Meteolojinx Recanto? _ It worked for Bletchley.”

_ “Meteolojinx Recanto?” _ Ron whispered. “No, I didn’t. Thanks, D—I mean, thanks, Arthur.” The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill hair left, and Ron darted past her out of sight.

Draco made to follow him, but found his path blocked as Percy Weasley strode into the lift, his nose buried in some papers he was reading. Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy seem to realize that he was in a lift with his father. He glanced up, saw Arthur, turned radish red, and left the lift the moment the doors opened again.

For the second time, Draco tried to get out, but this time found his way blocked by Arthur’s arm. “One moment, Runcorn.” The lift doors closed and as they clanked down another floor, Arthur said, “I hear you laid information about Dirk Cresswell.”

Draco had the impression that Arthur’s anger towards him--or Runcorn, anyway--was no less because of the brush with Percy. He decided his best chance was to act stupid. “Sorry?” he asked awkwardly.

“Don’t pretend, Runcorn,” Arthur fired back fiercely. “You tracked down the wizard who faked his family tree, didn’t you?”

“I—so what if I did?” Draco asked, though his stomach was twisting with misery. He’d never heard of Runcorn before today, and he found himself absolutely loathing the man by this point. He was glad that Ron and Hermione had at least lucked into impersonating people who seemed to be decent enough, and weren’t viewed with hostility by anyone that they liked. Draco honestly doubted that Hermione would have been able to endure it.

“So Dirk Cresswell is ten times the wizard you are,” Arthur said quietly, as the lift sank ever lower. “And if he survives Azkaban, you’ll have to answer to him, not to mention his wife, his sons, and his friends—”

“Arthur,” Draco interrupted him, “you know you’re being tracked, don’t you?” It was reckless, foolish to mention this--and he didn’t know if the Death Eaters had implemented means of eavesdropping on random conversations throughout the Ministry--but fear for his friends’ safety fueled Draco into speaking.

“Is that a threat, Runcorn?” Arthur asked loudly, and Draco winced.

“No,” he said quickly, “It’s a fact! They’re watching your every move—”

The lift doors opened; they had reached the Atrium. Arthur gave Draco a scathing look and swept from the lift, stalking away without looking back again. Draco stood there, shaken as the lift doors clanged shut once more. Despite his pain over that exchange, though, it struck Draco that Ron really has every reason to be proud to be the man’s son. Arthur was absolutely worthy of being deemed a role model, to his children and to their friends.

Sighing, Draco pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and put it back on. He would just have to try to extricate Hermione on his own while Ron was dealing with the raining office.

When the doors opened, he stepped out into a torch-lit stone passageway that was quite different from the wood-paneled and carpeted corridors above. Draco shivered slightly at the much lower temperature down here, looking toward the distant black door that marked the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

Shaking himself off, Draco put his back to it and set off; his destination was not the black door, but the doorway on the left-hand side, which opened onto the flight of stairs down to the court chambers.

His father had been tried and convicted in these courtrooms. Draco pushed that grim thought away, forcing himself to focus not on terrible memories, but on the overwhelmingly difficult task at hand.

He still had a couple of Decoy Detonators in his pockets...but perhaps it would be better to simply knock on the courtroom door, enter as Runcorn, and ask for a quick word with Mafalda? But he did not know whether Runcorn was sufficiently important to get away with this, and even if he managed it, Hermione’s non-reappearance might trigger a search before they were clear of the Ministry...

Lost in thought, Draco did not immediately register the unnatural chill that was creeping over him, as if he were descending into fog. It was becoming colder and colder with every step: a cold that reached right down into his throat and tore at his lungs, far worse than the natural cold of the underground hallways. And then he felt that stealing sense of despair, of hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him _. _

_...Dementors. _

As Draco reached the foot of the stairs and turned to his right, towards the courtroom from which he could hear the low murmur of voices, he was met by a horrifying scene.

The dark passage outside the courtroom was packed with tall, black-hooded figures, their faces completely hidden, their ragged breathing the only sound in the place. The petrified Muggleborns who had been brought in for questioning sat huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most of them were hiding their faces in their hands, perhaps in an instinctive attempt to shield themselves from the dementors’ greedy mouths. Some were accompanied by families, others sat alone. The dementors were gliding up and down in front of their terrified victims, and the cold, and hopelessness, and despair filling the place all piled down upon Draco like a physical weight, compressing his lungs....

_ Fight it, _ he told himself harshly; but he  _ was _ afraid, he could not help. He could not conjure a Patronus, and if he couldn’t even make it through this space and reach Hermione, then there would be no hope of rescuing her.

So he forced himself to move, prowling forward as silently as he could, and with every step he took numbness seemed to steal over his brain. But Draco forced himself to think of Hermione, and of Ron, who both needed him. Hermione was so close--just ahead of him, on the other side of that door--and she needed his help to get out of here. He had to reach her.

Moving through the towering black figures was almost debilitating in its terrifying impact: the eyeless faces hidden beneath their hoods turned as he passed, and Draco felt sure that they sensed him, sensed, perhaps, a human presence that still had some hope, some resilience.

And then, abruptly and shockingly amid the frozen silence, one of the dungeon doors on the left of the corridor was flung open and screams echoed out of it. “No, no, I’m half-blood, I’m half-blood, I tell you! My father was a wizard, he was, look him up, Arkie Alderton, he’s a well-known broomstick designer, look him up, I tell you—get your hands off me, get your hands off—”

“This is your final warning,” Umbridge’s soft voice rang out, magically magnified so that it sounded clearly even over the man’s desperate screams. “If you struggle, you will be subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss.” The man’s screams subsided at that cruel threat, but dry sobs continued echoing along the corridor. “Take him away,” Umbridge added imperiously.

Two dementors appeared in the doorway of the courtroom, their rotting, scabbed hands clutching the upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting. They glided away down the corridor with him, and the darkness they trailed behind them swallowed him from sight. Draco watched, his gut clenching against the impulse to react, to try and help--but it was out of his hands.

“Next—Mary Cattermole,” Umbridge called, and the familiar surname jarred Draco back into motion. A small woman stood up a few feet from him; she was trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a bun and she wore long, plain robes. Her face was completely bloodless. As she passed the dementors, Draco saw her shudder.

He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan, because he hated the sight of her walking alone into the dungeon: As the door began to swing closed, he slipped into the courtroom behind her.

It was not the same room in which he had once sat at his mother’s side, dressed in all black and trying not to breathe as Lucius faced the cold faces of the Wizengamot and was convicted for his actions as a Death Eater.

This one was much smaller, though the ceiling was just as high; it gave the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the bottom of a deep well. There were more dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest from the high, raised platform.

There, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge, with Yaxley on one side of her, and Hermione--quite as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole--on the other. At the foot of the platform, a bright silver, long-haired cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Draco realized with a flash of rage that it was there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the dementors.

That was for the accused to feel, apparently, not the accusers.

“Sit down,” Umbridge ordered in her soft, silky voice. Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of the arms of the chair and bound her there. “You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?” Umbridge asked her. Mrs. Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod. “Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?”

Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears at hearing her husband’s name. “I don’t know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!”

Umbridge ignored her. “Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?”

The sobs came harder than ever. “They’re frightened, they think I might not come home—”

“Spare us,” Yaxley spat, glaring down at her. “The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies.”

Draco hated himself right then for standing still where he was, wishing that he could offer some sort of comfort to the poor woman.

How could he have ever been similar to Yaxley and Umbridge, to all Death Eaters and pureblood ideologists, for believing that Muggleborns were parasites? They were people, in the end--these monsters were harming innocent people, and it made his heart clench with anger and pity, knowing that he had done right in shedding the old ways and turning to join the right side...but how he hated that he had spent fourteen years of his life believing this nonsense.

Mrs. Cattermole’s sobs masked Draco’s footsteps as he made his way carefully toward the steps that led up to the raised platform. The moment he had passed the place where the Patronus cat patrolled, he felt the change in temperature: Here, it was warm and comfortable. The Patronus, he was sure, was Umbridge’s, and it glowed so strong and brightly because she was so happy here, in her element, upholding the twisted laws she had helped to write.

Draco wanted to strangle that smug, distorted pleasure right out of her.

Slowly and very carefully he edged his way along the platform behind Umbridge, Yaxley, and Hermione, taking a seat behind the latter. He was worried about making Hermione jump. He thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon Umbridge and Yaxley, but even murmuring the word might cause Hermione alarm.

Then Umbridge raised her voice to address Mrs. Cattermole, and Draco seized his chance. “I’m behind you,” he whispered into Hermione’s ear. As he had expected, she jumped so violently she nearly overturned the bottle of ink with which she was supposed to be recording the interview, but both Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs. Cattermole, and this minor disturbance went unnoticed.

“A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole,” Umbridge was saying. “Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that description?” Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes on her sleeve. “Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?”

“T-took?” Mrs. Cattermole whimpered. “I didn’t t-take it from any-body. I b-bought it when I was eleven years old. It—it—it—chose me.” She fell silent again, crying harder than ever.

Umbridge laughed, a soft girlish laugh that made Draco want to attack her. Instinct and education about dueling etiquette strictly forbade anything as base as attacking another witch or wizard from behind, when they were unprepared to defend themselves--and yet Draco felt no remorse about the surge of desire to  _ harm _ that was pulsing through him.

He wanted nothing more than to destroy her without her ever seeing it coming, just as she was doing to these innocent people.

Umbridge leaned forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swung forward too, and dangled over the void: the locket was hanging around her throat. Hermione had seen it as well; she let out a little squeak, but Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, were deaf to everything else.

“No,” Umbridge purred. “No, I don’t think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here—Mafalda, pass them to me.” Umbridge held out a small hand without turning her face. She looked so toadlike at that moment that Draco was almost surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers.

Hermione’s hands were shaking from shock and fear. She fumbled in a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole’s name on it. “That’s—that’s pretty, Dolores,” she said, pointing at the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge’s blouse.

“What?” Umbridge snapped, glancing down as she was distracted from tormenting poor Mrs. Cattermole. “Oh yes—an old family heirloom,” she said, patting the locket lying on her large bosom. “The S stands for Selwyn...I am related to the Selwyns...indeed, there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related...a pity,” she continued in a louder voice, flicking through Mrs. Cattermole’s questionnaire, “that the same cannot be said for you. ‘Parents’ professions:  _ greengrocers.’” _

Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat patrolled up and down, and the dementors stood waiting in the corners, ready to swoop in and drag away the innocent people whose lives Umbridge was gleefully ruining, even ending, out of empty and meaningless malice.

It was Umbridge’s lie that brought the blood surging into Draco’s brain, obliterating his sense of caution—that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a petty criminal was being used to bolster her own pureblood credentials, utterly falsely. He raised his wand, not even troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, and hissed, “Stupefy!”

There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled and her forehead hit the edge of the balustrade. Mrs. Cattermole’s papers slid off her lap onto the floor and down below, the prowling silver cat vanished.

Ice-cold air hit them like an oncoming wind. Yaxley, confused, looked around for the source of the curse and saw Draco’s disembodied hand and wand pointing at him. He tried to draw his own wand, but he was too late: “Stupefy!” Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor.

“Dra--!” Hermione sounded strangled, catching herself from using his real name while still trying to catch his attention.

“Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let her pretend—”

“No--look, help Mrs. Cattermole!” Draco whirled around, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak; down below, the dementors had moved out of their corners and were gliding swiftly toward the woman chained to the chair. Whether just because the Patronus had vanished or because they sensed that their masters were no longer in control of the room, they seemed to have abandoned restraint. Mrs. Cattermole let out a terrible scream of fear as a slimy, scabbed hand grasped her chin and forced her face back, the monster intending to administer its worse-than-death Kiss with no authority in place to prevent it.

_ “Expecto Patronum!”  _ Hermione had found her voice; her silver otter soared from the tip of her wand and swirled and dove through the air towards the dementors, which fell back and melted into the shadows again. The otter’s light, more powerful and more warming than the cat’s protection, filled the whole dungeon as it gamboled around and around the room.

“Get the Horcrux,” Hermione gasped at Draco, and he stuffed the Invisibility Cloak back into his bag before turning back to Umbridge’s unconscious form, while Hermione stumbled down the tiered steps towards Mrs. Cattermole.

“He--but--him?” the traumatized woman whispered, gazing past Hermione at Draco as Hermione worked hastily to remove her chains while still maintaining her Patronus. “But—but Reg said Runcorn...was the one who submitted my name for questioning!”

“Did I?” Draco muttered, hearing the chains fall away from the poor woman’s arms as he roughly rolled Umbridge onto her back, finding the locket hanging askew at her throat. “Must’ve had a change of heart--” Yanking at the chain, Draco pocketed the Horcrux as soon as he had it free. 

And then he paused, staring down at Umbridge’s slack face.

The fact that this beast of a woman had somehow survived the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest would forever make him angry. But seeing her now, in action only moments prior--boasting of a false bloodline and relishing in the misery she was causing--the rage that was boiling in Draco’s blood almost felt like too much to bear. His hands clenched on his wand, until his knuckles started to turn white.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked anxiously as soon as she had Mrs. Cattermole free. “We have to go, we need to get out of here.”

“...I can’t leave her like this.” Draco didn’t like how hollow his tone was, but his ears were ringing still, his heart was pounding so hard in his ribcage it felt like it was trying to climb up his throat. “I can’t leave her alive, not after everything that she’s done--”

“Don’t you  _ dare!” _ Hermione’s hand snatched at his, giving a sharp tug, and his eyes darted towards her face. Already he could see that the Polyjuice Potion was wearing off slowly; her face was less lined, her hair turning curlier and darker brown by the second. “We are not stooping to their level! I will not let you have blood on your hands, even if we are in the middle of a war!”

“But I can do it!” Draco argued. “Some people don’t deserve to live, Hermione, you  _ know _ that.”

“But that’s not my place to decide!” she snapped, though her eyes looked a bit misty with fear. Then, shakily, her voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t let you hurt yourself like this, Draco. I won’t let you become a murderer.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Slytherin and Gryffindor ideals clashing against each other for the first time in years; both of them knowing the weight of such a decision.

But in the end, Draco knew she was right; if he did kill Umbridge, and Yaxley, then there was no guarantee that they could heal from this. There was no guarantee that she would even look at him the same way again.

“Fine,” he said through slightly gritted teeth. “Let’s go.”

Relief replaced the spark of terror in her eyes, and Hermione nodded. Then she paused, sucking in a breath and looking back at Umbridge quickly. “Oh--wait, just let me--”

“Hermione, we’re surrounded by dementors!”

“I am  _ well- _ aware of that, but if she wakes up and the locket’s gone—I need to duplicate it _ —Geminio! _ There...that should fool her....” Leaving a fake locket now chained around Umbridge’s pudgy neck, Hermione turned to run downstairs after Draco.

Mrs. Cattermole looked just as frightened as ever before, staring between them in bewilderment. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “You--I thought you were--”

“You’re going to leave here with us,” Draco told her firmly, pulling her to her feet as he cut off her stammering. “Go home, grab your children, and get out. Get out of the country if you’ve got to. Disguise yourselves and run. You’ve seen how it is, you won’t get anything like a fair hearing here.”

“Dra--I mean--oh _ , Merlin,” _ Hermione said breathlessly, peeking out the door into the hallway. “How are we going to get out of here with all those dementors outside the door?”

“Your Patronus,” Draco reminded her. The otter slowed down in the air, hovering nearby. “As many as you can muster, the more we have, the higher chance we have at getting out of here, including the other Muggleborns outside.”

“You need to conjure one too, then,” Hermione said, flicking her wand and another gleaming otter burst from the tip, gamboling into the air before going to join it’s twin.

Draco gaped at her. “I have never been able to conjure a corporeal Patronus before, and you are very well aware of that fact.”

“No time like the present!”

“Hermione, we do not have  _ time!” _ Gently grabbing Mrs Cattermole’s arm, Draco steered her towards the door. “Come on, we need to go. Now!”

When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. Draco looked around quickly; the dementors were falling back on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, scattering before the silver creatures. But he knew they would try again, as soon as Hermione was distracted enough to falter, and with so many vulnerable people here, it was far too tempting for the dementors to stay at bay for long.

“So sorry!” Draco announced to the dazzled Muggleborns who were watching the Patronus otters swimming about to protect them. “But it’s been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families. Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That’s the new official position. Now, if you’ll just follow the Patronuses, you’ll be able to leave from the Atrium.

They managed to get up the stone steps without being intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Draco started to have misgivings. Hermione looked nearly close to fainting, and she was staggering a little as Mrs. Cattermole continued clinging to her arm, trying to split her focus between keeping up the otters and guiding the panicked, babbling group up the dimly-lit pathway.

Behind them, he could feel the cold rising again, the dementors beginning to push back against what they no doubt felt was the weakening strength of the Patronuses. They were still too far back from the lifts. There was a chance that they were not going to make it.

“Draco--” His eyes found Hermione’s over the others’ heads. She had all but stopped walking forward, and she was shaking, her wand visibly quivering in the glow of the otters.

Ahead of them, the lift clanged to a halt, and a still-soaked Ron stumbled out of it. “Reg!” Mrs. Cattermole screamed, and she threw herself into Ron’s arms. “Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and he’s told all of us to leave the country, I think we’d better do it, Reg, I really do, let’s hurry home and fetch the children and—why are you so wet?”

“Water,” Ron muttered, disengaging himself. “Guys, they know there are intruders inside the Ministry. I reckon we’ve got five minutes, if that—there are Aurors pouring down into the Atrium.”

Hermione’s Patronuses vanished with a pop as she turned a horror-struck face to Draco. “If we’re trapped down here—”

“We won’t be,” Draco cut her off. He addressed the now-silent group behind them, who were all gawping at him. “Who’s got wands?” About half of them raised their hands. “Okay, all of you who haven’t got wands need to attach yourself to somebody who has. We’ll need to be fast before they stop us. Come on. Ron--Patronus, Hermione, get yours back--”

She met his eyes again as she flicked her wand, a crease of concentration pinching her brow; the otters began reappearing, this time joined by a single glowing Jack Russel Terrier, brightening the dark passage better than before.

As Hermione stared back at him, Draco was startled to see her lips twitch into a ghost of a smile; her eyes softened as she held his gaze, and suddenly Draco knew without even a shadow of a doubt what memory was propelling her Patronuses.  It was like the warmth that the Patronuses always filled a room with suddenly exploded throughout his chest. Draco felt it spread through his body and out into his fingertips, and he knew as he raised his wand that for once, he was going to manage it.  _ “Expecto Patronum.” _

What came bursting out of his wand was not a white mist, which was all that he had managed in the past; it was something so bright and dazzling that he had to momentarily squint his eyes against the sudden glare, as if the entire corridor was turned into a bright springtime day. More warmth filled the passageway, and when he was finally able to peer more closely at it, Draco gaped at the large very familiar shape of a white glowing phoenix.

Its wings spread wide as it took flight, leading the otter and the terrier Patronuses down the corridor to finally chase the dementors down with no mercy. Freed from their icy influence, the group began to move again, hurrying the remaining distance to the lifts. With some effort they crammed themselves into two. The glowing phoenix returned and hovered above them, serving as a sentinel before the golden grilles as they shut and the lifts began to rise.

“That...was incredible,” Hermione whispered, and when Draco looked over at her, she was smiling at him with so much tenderness that it made him feel like he could have summoned ten more of the gleaming white birds. “Brilliant.”

“Level eight,” said the witch’s cool voice over their heads. “Atrium.”

Draco knew at once that they were in trouble. The Atrium was filled with people moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off.

“Oh, no!” Hermione squeaked. “What are we going to—?”

_ “Stop!”  _ Draco thundered without hesitating, and the powerful voice of Runcorn echoed through the Atrium. The wizards sealing the fireplaces all froze. “Follow me,” he whispered to the group of terrified Muggleborns, who moved forward in a huddle, shepherded behind him by Ron and Hermione.

“What’s up, Albert?” the same balding wizard who had followed Draco out of the fireplace when they had first arrived asked nervously. It felt like literal years had passed since then.

“This lot needs to leave before you seal the exits,” Draco intonted with all of the authority he could muster.

The group of wizards in front of him looked at one another uncertainly. “We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone—”

“Are you contradicting me?” Draco demanded, trying not to sound as flustered as he felt. Hell, the only times in his life when he’d considered himself this assertive over others had been when he was eleven or twelve bloody years old, and he’d used swagger and sneering to try and hold Crabbe and Goyle in line. The current situation could not have been more vastly different. “Would you like me to have your family tree examined, like I had Dirk Cresswell’s?”

“Sorry!” the balding wizard gasped, backing away as if burned. “I didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought...I thought they were in for questioning and...”

“Their blood is pure,” Draco boomed, and his deep voice echoed impressively through the hall. “Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go,” he boomed to the Muggleborns, who scurried forward into the fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry wizards hung back, some looking confused, others scared and resentful.

Then: “Mary!” Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder, and Draco’s heart sank. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift.

“R-Reg?” His wife looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly. The curse wasn’t just due to this unforeseen crisis, either; Ron’s gaze was on Hermione, and Draco saw too that the Polyjuice Potion was undeniably and fully beginning to wear off, because Hermione’s hair was almost back to its natural thickness and color, and Ron’s was rapidly lengthening and reddening.

The balding wizard gaped, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other, and narrowing as Ron’s appearance began showing through. “Hey—what’s going on? What is this?”

“Seal the exit!  _ Seal it!”  _ Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all of the Muggleborns but Mrs. Cattermole had now successfully vanished. Worse, at his heels was the real Runcorn, looking absolutely murderous.

Draco didn’t need a mirror, or Ron or Hermione’s horrified looks. His body was changing on him, his perspective changing in a disorienting surge as he lost height inch by inch. The robes he was wearing began feeling too heavy, made for a frame as large and bulky as Runcorn--not the only slightly more-muscled figure that Hermione had designed for Draco.

As the balding wizard lifted his wand to obey, Draco raised one fist--his hand was changing before his very eyes, becoming smaller and less meaty--and punched him, sending him flying through the air. “He’s been helping Muggleborns escape, Yaxley!” Draco shouted, but his voice was no longer the hard boom that had been intimidating everyone around him.

The balding wizard’s colleagues set up an uproar, under the cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole, pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Draco to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed, “My wife! Who was that with my wife? What’s going on?”

Draco saw Yaxley’s head turn back towards him, and then Hermione, and he saw the instant that the truth began to dawn in that brutish face. He might not have the first notion of who Draco was, glamoured as he was, but it would be unlikely that he didn’t realize who Mafilda Hopkirk was rapidly transforming back into.

“Come on!” Draco gasped at Hermione; he seized her hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as Yaxley’s curse sailed over Draco’s head, narrowly missing them. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle, and Draco flung open the door.

Ron was standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole. “Reg, I don’t understand—”

“Let go, I’m not your husband, you’ve got to go home! Blimey,  _ look _ at me, I’m obviously not him--”

There was a noise in the cubicle behind them, and Draco looked around, though he already knew what he’d find. Yaxley had just appeared.

_ “Let’s go!” _ Draco yelled. He grabbed Hermione by the hand and Ron by one arm and turned on the spot, praying desperately that Ron could successfully shake off Mary Cattermole’s hold so that he wasn’t accidentally kidnapping the poor woman to Grimmauld Place.

Darkness engulfed them all, along with the familiar sensation of compressing bands--but something was wrong.

Hermione’s hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip. Draco felt briefly like he was actually, truly going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see, and the only solid things in the world were Ron’s arm and Hermione’s fingers. But those were slowly slipping away, which Draco did not understand...and then he saw the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker.

But before he could draw a breath, there was a scream and a flash of purple light; Hermione’s hand suddenly turned vice-like upon his, and everything went dark again.


	33. Losing So Much Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The argument was forgotten in laughter that night, and Draco actually felt cheerful--even hopeful--as he took the first of the three night watches."

The first thing he became aware of, as soon as his head stopped spinning, was a blinding and unnatural pain on his face, above his right eye.

A shaky breath escaped Draco, a small groan of pain; he reached up to touch his own face, his hand coming away wet with blood...his own. For a moment, he wondered if someone had fired a curse at him they were Disapparating away from the Ministry--but it didn’t feel like he had been hit with a spell.

Struggling to draw breath into lungs that still felt flattened from Apparation, he rolled over slowly, listening through slightly ringing ears to the sounds of grass and twigs and leaves cracking underneath him.

Blinking his non-bloodied eye, he looked around, finding himself in some kind of wooded area, though it looked nothing like the Forbidden Forest back at Hogwarts. Sluggishly he wondered why he would have even thought that they had gone there; it wasn’t possible to Apparate inside or around Hogwarts. Besides, the trees here looked younger, more widely spaced, and the ground clearer.

Movement caught his attention, and he turned his head to find Ron collapsed onto the ground with Hermione on her hands and knees above him, and suddenly everything came back into sharper focus.

He could see blood drenching Ron’s left side, and his face was greyish white due to blood loss, crimson already staining the leaf-strewn earth under him. The Polyjuice Potion had worn off completely by now, and Ron was completely himself one again--and he looked nearly close to death.

“He’s been splinched,” Hermione choked out, her shaky fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was the darkest and most wet. As she tore open his shirt, Draco was horrified at the sight; Ron’s upper arm was missing a great chunk of flesh, as if it had been carved out with a knife. This was nothing like when Susan Bones had lost her leg during their apparition lessons back at Hogwarts, when it was seen a little more comical than frightening.

“He needs dittany,” Draco said, already turning to support himself on his knees. “Immediately.”

“I have a bottle in my bag,” Hermione replied, and Draco immediately scrambled to his feet, nearly toppling over as his head briefly spun. He hurried to where she had landed to grab the purse where it had dropped onto the ground. Tugging out his wand, Draco summoned the bottle to his hand rather than try to search for it manually, knowing that time was of the essence. As soon as he had it, he hurried back to Hermione’s side.

Ron’s eyes were now half-closed, a sure sign that he had fainted--from the pain, the shock or the bloodloss, Draco didn’t know, but his Healer-oriented mind was already hard at work. Unstoppering the bottle with a quick flick of his wand, he poured three drops onto the bleeding wound; greenish smoke billowed upward, and when it cleared, he breathed a sigh of relief to see that the bleeding had stopped.

Already the wound looked several days old, rather than minutes; new skin stretched over what had just been open flesh.

It wasn’t until Hermione looked up at him fully for the first time since they’d landed that she gave a small scream of surprise, nearly knocking Draco back on his arse in surprise. “What?” he asked in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“You got splinched, too!” Hermione cried. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding so badly! Get over here, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I feel like Ron was the main priority,” Draco replied, but he shuffled to her side, allowing her to take the bottle of dittany from his hands. “I know other spells that can help speed up the healing for him--”

“One thing at a time.” Reaching under his shirt, Hermione tugged the glamoured necklace out. Her fingers were shaking wildly, barely able to close around it. “Take the glamour off, I need to see the damage before we do anything else.”

He obeyed, and as soon as the rippling effect of the second disguise had rolled off of him, Hermione’s gentle fingers were prodding at the area around the wound, causing him to wince in pain. Using her wand, she washed the blood off with a small water charm before applying the dittany; his skin and eyelid burned red-hot for a second before cooling off, the new skin stretching over his wound, as well. “Open your eye,” she commanded. “I need to see if…”

Her voice trailed off, and Draco knew what she was worried about. Losing skin was one thing. Losing one of his eyes was entirely another. But when he obeyed her, they were both relieved when his sight returned, clearly showing that his eye was still intact. “It might scar,” she warned. “But at least it’s not worse.”

“That’s fine.” Draco looked around then, eyeing their surroundings with bewilderment now that he wasn’t running on adrenaline and terror. “Where are we, anyway? I thought we were going to try and return to Grimmauld Place from the Ministry...”

Hermione took a deep breath, suddenly looking close to tears. “Yaxley caught hold of me as we were Disapparating,” she admitted shakily. “I couldn’t get rid of him, he was too strong, and he was still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, and then…well, he must have seen the front door, because he slackened his grip. I managed to shake him off with a jinx, and...and I brought us here instead.”

Draco stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment before horror struck him. “Do you think he’s still at Grimmauld Place? Surely he can’t--”

“When Dumbledore died, all of the members of the Order became Secret-Keepers,” Hermione replied. “I brought Yaxley right into the Fidelius Charm. I broke the secret, I didn’t mean to--”

There was no getting around it; Draco was sure that she was right about Yaxley breaking past the barrier.

It was a heavy blow, and he let himself sink back to sit flat on the forest floor, feeling the pain of the loss. If Yaxley could now get inside the house, there was no way that they could return. Sirius could handle one Death Eater, Draco was sure--he’d no doubt find some means of banishing and hopefully Obliviating Yaxley, or hold him hostage until other Order members could come to his aid and apply fresh protection spells on the house.

But the three teenagers wouldn’t be able to get back in anytime soon, even assuming that the Order did manage to preserve their hold on Grimmauld Place as a safehouse; if they did, they’d have to change the Secret Keeping spells, and that would prevent him, Ron, and Hermione from being given access. Not without risking contact with other Order members, and that was out of the question.

“Sirius,” he said aloud, his voice shaky. “He’s...”

Hermione shook her head, tears bright in her eyes, but not falling. “Before we left, I told Sirius that I didn’t know how our--our mission would go,” she whispered. “I’d told him it’d be smart if he and Kreacher were lying low, or even out of the house. If they’re there, maybe he can stop Yaxley bringing other Death Eaters...if not, it may just be that we lose Grimmauld Place until this is all over.” She grimaced. “I even figured out a memory charm that would keep his mother from saying your name, in case they do get in. She can’t reveal that you were ever there."

“You thought farther through all of this than we did,” Draco said, looking at her gratefully. “We’d be dead without you.”

She smiled, though it was small and sad. “Doing what I must,” she said with a sigh, picking her wand back up. Conjuring her Patronus, Hermione muttered her spell, and the otter went darting away out of sight. “It’ll tell Sirius not to come home, if he is out,” Hermione murmured. “I hope I don’t just endanger him further, doing that...Draco, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Hermione went on, renewed anguish in her voice. “I just reacted on instinct. I’d thought we’d gotten away from him, but then he was holding my arm--I could see his face, he got distracted when we landed, I  _ knew _ that he’d seen the door--”

“It wasn’t your fault, Hermione, it’s alright.” Draco shook his head wearily. “Any number of things could’ve given away that there were intruders. And you thinking that fast to keep the three of us safe is only ever a good thing, whatever it costs us afterward.”

Before Hermione could reply, Ron groaned and opened his eyes. He was still grey, and his face glistened with sweat. “How d’you feel?” Hermione whispered, refocusing on him and stroking one still-trembling hand through his sweat-streaked red hair.

“Lousy,” Ron croaked back, wincing as he felt his injured arm. “Where are we?”

“In the woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup,” Hermione said softly. “I wanted somewhere enclosed, undercover, and this was—”

“—the first place that you thought of,” Draco finished for her, glancing around at the apparently deserted glade. “Not a bad idea. Remote enough, and it’s not in use now, not this late in the late. Good thinking.”

He could not help remembering the last time that he had been in these woods. The campsite, out of sight beyond the treeline, had been bustling with witches and wizards of all ages, families celebrating the summer, and being together, and their preferred Quidditch teams as Ireland and Bulgaria prepared to battle it out for the year’s victory.

Draco had been so bloody smug, strutting about and arrogantly bragging about Cornelius Fudge inviting the Malfoys to attend the match in his personal box, and to raise their tent--a portable cottage, really--alongside his own.

How terribly things had gone that night. Now he knew all the details--Barty Crouch Jr. had escaped his father’s containment, and the Death Eaters had marched out of blind, stupid, self-serving malice. They had tortured an innocent Muggle family and scared the entire wizarding community, and all for nothing.

It sickened Draco, knowing that he had stood in these same woods and mocked Hermione, and Ron and Harry, when he’d seen them fleeing from his father and the rest of those cowards as they destroyed the campsite.

“D’you reckon we should move on from here?” Ron asked Draco, and Draco could tell by the look on Ron’s face that he was misreading the pinched look on Draco’s face as wariness about their location.

“No, I...I think this is fine.” Draco drew a shaky breath. “Just recalling that summer.” Looking at the ginger, he frowned; Ron still looked far too pale and clammy. He had made no attempt to sit up and it looked as though he was too weak to do so. The prospect of moving him was simply too daunting. “Let’s stay here for now,” Draco added more definitively.

Looking relieved by that, Hermione sprang to her feet, nodding and going to her bag. “Where are you going?” Ron asked her.

“If we’re staying, we should put some protective enchantments around the place,” she replied, and raising her wand, she began to walk in a wide circle around Draco and Ron, murmuring incantations as she went. Draco saw minor disturbances in the surrounding air: it was as if Hermione had cast a heat haze upon the clearing they sat in.  _ “Salvio Hexia...Protego Totalum...Repello Muggletum...Muffliato... _ could you get the tent out, Draco?”

“Tent?” he echoed, surprised. “We’ve got a--”

“Of course we have--in the bag.” Using another Summoning Charm, Draco raised his eyebrows as a tent emerged in a lumpy mass of canvas, rope, and poles. It looked vaguely familiar, though he wasn’t sure why; behind him, Ron made a sound like a pained chuckle.

“That’s the tent we stayed in during the Quidditch World Cup,” he remarked, whether answering Draco’s confused expression or just stating it aloud to Hermione, it wasn’t clear. “I thought that it belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?” he added, as Draco started to disentangle the tent pegs.

“Apparently he didn’t want it back, his lumbago’s gotten so bad,” Hermione replied distractedly, now performing complicated figure-eight movements with her wand. “So your dad said that I could borrow it.  _ Erecto!”  _ she added, pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in one fluid motion rose into the air and settled, fully constructed, onto the ground before Draco; the tent pegs soared from his fingers, landing with a final thud at the end of a rope.

_ “Cave Inimicum,”  _ Hermione finished with a skyward flourish. “That’s as much as I can do. At the very least, we should know if anyone is coming, I can’t guarantee it will keep out Vol—”

“Don’t say the name--please,” Ron cut across her, his voice unexpectedly harder. Draco and Hermione looked at each other, surprised by his vehemence. “I’m sorry,” Ron went on, moaning a little as he raised himself up a little in order to look at them more levelly. “But it feels like a—a jinx or something. Can’t we call him You-Know-Who, or Riddle, whatever—please?”

“I’m fine with using Riddle, but still—” Draco began.

“Just do this for me, please,” Ron said, his tone shockingly close to snapping. “C’mon. Just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?”

“Respect?” Draco repeated, bewildered and a little brassed off by that--but Hermione shot him a warning look. Apparently he was not to argue with Ron while the latter was in such a weakened condition. Clenching his jaw, Draco moved to help Hermione as they half-carried, half-dragged Ron through the entrance of the tent.

The interior reminded Draco distinctly of the Burrow, even if it hadn’t belonged to the Weasleys before Hermione borrowed it. It contained a small flat, complete with bathroom and tiny kitchen, good for more than two people--but not by much.

He shoved aside an old armchair and lowered Ron carefully onto the lower berth of a bunk bed; there were two of them, one on each side of the little bedroom-like space. Even this very short journey had turned Ron whiter still, and once they had settled him on the mattress he closed his eyes again and did not speak for a while.

“I’ll make some tea,” Hermione whispered breathlessly, pulling a kettle and mugs from the depths of her bag and heading toward the tiny kitchen at the back of the main room.

Draco found the hot drink as welcome as firewhisky had been on the night that Dumbledore had died; it seemed to burn away a little of the fear fluttering in his chest. After a minute or two, Ron broke the silence again. “What d’you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?” he asked hoarsely, tilting his head awkwardly in order to sip his own tea.

“With any luck, they’ll have gotten away,” Hermione replied, clutching her hot mug close to her chest as if for comfort. “As long as Mr. Cattermole had his wits about him, he’ll have transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition and they’ll be fleeing the country right now with their children. That’s what Draco told her to do.”

“Blimey, I hope they escaped,” Ron said, leaning back on his pillows. The tea seemed to be doing him some good; a little of his color had returned. “I didn’t get the feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him. God, I hope they made it....if they both end up in Azkaban because of us...”

Draco looked over at Hermione, and the question that he had been about to ask—about whether Mrs. Cattermole’s lack of a wand would prevent her Apparating alongside her husband—died in his throat. Hermione was watching Ron fret over the fate of the Cattermoles, and there was a tenderness in her expression that reminded him of the many times, in the years before he’d joined their side of the fight two years before, that Draco had assumed--like everyone--that there was more blossoming between Ron and Hermione than just friendship.

“So, have you got it?” Draco shook away the unwelcome flicker of jealous thought that had wormed itself into his head, focusing on Hermione and blinking in slight confusion.

“Got—got what?” he asked, then remembered with a little start exactly what they had just gone through a medley of hellish messes for. “Right, bloody hell--yes, of course.”

“You got it?” Ron yelped, raising himself a little higher on his pillows. “No one tells me anything! Blimey, you could have mentioned that we managed it!”

“Well, we were running for our lives from the Death Eaters, weren’t we?” Hermione countered, rolling her eyes. “Here, show me, Draco...”

He pulled it from his pocket and held it out, and Hermione took the locket, examining it very briefly before she handed it to Ron. It was about as large as a chicken’s egg, with an ornate letter S inlaid with many small green stones, which glinted dully in the diffused light shining down through the tent’s canvas roof.

“There isn’t any chance someone’s destroyed it since Kreacher had it?” Ron asked hopefully. “I mean, are we sure it’s still a Horcrux?”

“I think so,” Hermione said regretfully, taking it back from him and looking at it more closely. “There’d be some sign of damage if it had been magically destroyed.”

She passed it back to Draco, who turned it over in his fingers. The thing looked perfect, pristine. He remembered the mangled remains of the diary, and how the stone in the Horcrux ring had been cracked open when Dumbledore destroyed it. “I think Kreacher’s right,” he said tiredly. “We’re going to have to work out how to open this thing before we can destroy it.”

Sudden awareness of what he was holding, of what lived behind the little golden doors that could not be opened, hit Draco starkly as he spoke. Even after all their efforts to find it, he felt a violent urge to fling the locket from him.

Mastering his emotions, he tried without expectation of success to prise the locket apart with his fingers, then attempted the Alohomora charm just in case. Neither worked, of course. Ron and Hermione each did their best as well, but the locket seemed determined to remain defiant.

“Can you feel it, though?” Ron asked in a hushed voice, as he held it tight in his clenched fist. At Draco’s raised eyebrows, Ron passed the Horcrux to him; after a moment or two, Draco thought he knew what Ron meant. Was it his own blood pulsing through his veins that he could feel, or was it something beating inside the locket, like a tiny metal heart?

“What are we going to do with it?” Hermione asked softly.

“Keep it safe until we work out how to destroy it,” Draco replied heavily, and, little though he wanted to, he hung the chain around his own neck, dropping the locket out of sight beneath his robes, where it rested against his chest beside the much pleasanter weight of Hermione’s glamour charm.

“I think we should take it in turns to keep watch outside the tent,” he added to Hermione, standing up and stretching. “And we’ll need to think about some food as well. You stay there,” he added sharply, as Ron attempted to sit up and promptly turned a nasty shade of green.

With the small Sneakoscope that Hermione had packed set carefully upon the table in the tent, Draco and Hermione spent the rest of the day sharing the role of lookout. However, the Sneakoscope remained silent and still upon its point all day; and whether because of the protective enchantments and Muggle-repelling charms Hermione had spread around them, or because people rarely ventured this way anyway, their patch of wood remained deserted apart from occasional birds and squirrels.

Evening brought no change, besides a deepening cold; Draco lit his wand as he swapped places with Hermione at ten’o’clock, and looked out upon a deserted scene, noting the bats fluttering high above him across the single patch of starry sky visible from their tree-sheltered clearing.

He felt properly hungry now, and a little light-headed as a result. Hermione had not packed any food in her magical bag, as she had assumed that they would be returning to Grimmauld Place that night, so they had had nothing to eat except some wild mushrooms that she had collected from amongst the nearest trees and stewed in a billycan.

Now Draco regretted convincing himself that it would’ve been a jinx not to take everything that they needed on the day’s dangerous mission. It wouldn’t have been additional weight, concealed in Hermione’s extended bag, and it would have saved them substantial trouble now...alone in the woods, unable to return to the house or to connect with their friends.

The mushrooms had not been any kind of a meal. After a couple of mouthfuls Ron had pushed his portion away, looking queasy; Draco had only persevered so as not to hurt Hermione’s feelings. Even he hadn’t had a notion of how to make the fungi into something with real flavor.

The surrounding silence was broken by odd rustlings and what sounded like crackings of twigs: Draco thought that they were caused by animals rather than people, but he kept his wand held tight at the ready. His insides, already uncomfortable due to their inadequate helping of rubbery mushrooms, tingled with unease.

He had thought that he would feel elated if they managed to steal back the Horcrux, but somehow he did not; all he felt as he sat looking out at the darkness, of which his wand lit only a tiny part, was worry about what would happen next. It was as though he had been hurtling toward this point for weeks, months, maybe even years, but now he had come to an abrupt halt, run out of road. There were other Horcruxes out there somewhere, but he did not have the faintest idea where they could be. He did not even know what all of them were. Meanwhile he was at a loss to know how to destroy the only one that they had found, the Horcrux that currently lay against the bare flesh of his chest.

Curiously, it had not taken heat from his body, but lay so cold against his skin it might just have emerged from icy water. From time to time, Draco thought--or perhaps imagined--that he could feel the tiny heartbeat ticking irregularly alongside his own. Nameless forebodings crept upon him as he sat there in the dark: He tried to resist them, push them away, yet they came at him relentlessly, as dark and incomplete and vastly unwelcome as the trickle of random jealousy that he had felt, watching Hermione smiling so fondly at Ron.

His left arm prickled, the way that it had more often than not lately, so Draco didn’t feel alarm. He glanced at his sleeve-covered skin, wondering if somewhere out there, Voldemort knew that something had gone amiss that day.

Had the Death Eaters had the nerve to admit to him that there had been a heist at the Ministry? And Yaxley--if nothing had prevented him from getting back out of Grimmauld Place, had he actually recognized Hermione, enough to declare that one of Harry Potter’s best friends had been right there, in the heart of Voldemort’s takeover?

Staring into the darkening night, Draco felt his mind drifting through fears, some more tangible and terrible than others. It was only when he felt a startled spark of genuine pain, like what had pounded through his head when they’d first landed here in the woods, that Draco startled back into full awareness. Looking down, he sucked in a breath when he saw that he’d somehow unbuttoned and partially drawn-up the sleeve of his shirt--and his fingers were curved, claw-like, against his skin. His nails had dragged over the Dark Mark, barely visible in the current lighting; Draco had seemingly been scratching at it, as his mind wandered, until the skin broke.

Swallowing, Draco picked his wand back up and cleaned the shallow scratches. He didn’t want to alarm Hermione, but it would be better than letting his shirt sleeve end up bloody. Rising, Draco slipped back into the tent and went to grab the dittany.

“What did you--Draco, what happened?” Hermione rose from the chair she’d been curled in, coming over and frowning at his arm.

“Wasn’t paying attention, it’s fine,” he replied, applying a little dittany. Hermione wordlessly Summoned a strip of bandaging out of her bag and wrapped it, glancing up at his face with an intensity that made him sigh. “I promise. I was lost in thought, worrying, and just scratched at my own arm. It’ll heal.”

“You’ve never had nervous habits like that before,” Hermione pointed out. “We’d best keep an eye on it--no need for you to give yourself more unneeded injuries.”

Ron was doing marginally better the next morning, enough so that the question of moving on from the glen wasn’t immediately shot down. Draco and Hermione felt that it was best not to stay anywhere too long, and Ron agreed--with the sole proviso that their next move took them within reach of a bacon sandwich. Hermione rolled her eyes, and they began packing things back into the beaded purse.

Hermione removed the enchantments she had placed around the clearing, while Draco and Ron obliterated all the marks and impressions on the ground that might show that anyone had camped there.

They Disapparated to the outskirts of a small market town. Once they had pitched the tent in the shelter of a small copse of trees and surrounded it with freshly cast defensive enchantments, Draco ventured out under the Invisibility Cloak to try and find sustenance.

This, however, did not go as planned. He had barely entered the town when an unnatural chill, a descending mist, and a sudden darkening of the skies made him freeze where he stood.

“But you can conjure a Patronus now!” Ron protested, unable to conceal his disappointment when Draco arrived back at the tent empty-handed, out of breath, and mouthing the single word,  _ dementors. _

“I couldn’t...make one,” he panted back, clutching the stitch in his side. “Wouldn’t...come.”

Their expressions of consternation and confusion had made Draco feel a little ashamed. It had been a nightmarish experience, seeing the dementors gliding out of the mist in the distance and realizing, as the paralyzing cold choked his lungs and a distant screaming filled his ears, that he was not going to be able to protect himself. It had taken all his willpower to uproot himself from the spot and run, leaving the eyeless dementors to glide amongst the Muggles who might not be able to see them, but would assuredly feel the despair they cast wherever they went.

“So we still haven’t got any food.”

“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione snapped, moving defensively to Draco’s side and putting a gentle hand on his arm. “Draco, what happened? Why do you think you couldn’t make your Patronus? You managed perfectly at the Ministry once you got it down!”

“I don’t know.” He sat low in one of Perkins’s old armchairs, feeling more irritated by the moment. He was afraid that something had gone wrong inside him. The escape from the Ministry seemed a long time ago: today he might have been a child again, wide-eyed and afraid in the looming presence of the dementors when they’d patrolled the grounds at Hogwarts. Hunger and self-doubt wormed away at him, making Draco feel tense and wary.

Ron kicked a chair leg, startling Draco from his reverie. “What?” Ron snarled at Hermione. “I’m starving! All I’ve had since I bled half to death is a couple of toadstools!”

“You go and fight your way through the dementors, then,” Draco sighed, annoyed by the ginger’s seeming lack of compassion.

“I would, but my arm’s in a sling, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

“That’s convenient. Meanwhile, I nearly lost my bloody eyeball.”

“And what’s that supposed to—?”

“Of course!” Hermione cried, clapping a hand to her forehead and startling both of them into silence. “Draco, take off the locket! Come on,” she added impatiently, clicking her fingers at him when he did not react at once. “The Horcrux, Draco, you’re still wearing it!” She held out her hands, and Draco lifted the golden chain over his head.

The moment it parted contact with his skin he felt free, and oddly light. He had not even realized that he was clammy or that there was a heavy weight pressing on his stomach until both sensations lifted.

“Better?” Hermione asked knowingly.

“Yeah. Much better,” he confirmed, breathing a little more easily.

“Good,” Hermione said, visibly relieved as she looked down at the heavy gold locket. “Well, maybe we ought not to wear it. We can just keep it in the tent.”

“We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around,” Draco countered firmly. “If we lose it, if it gets stolen—”

“Oh, alright, alright,” Hermione said tiredly, and she placed it around her own neck and tucked it out of sight down the front of her shirt. “But we’ll take turns wearing it, so nobody keeps it on too long.”

“Great,” Ron groused irritably, seemingly not soothed from his anger by this development. “And now we’ve sorted that out, can we please get some food?”

“Fine, but we’ll go somewhere else to find it,” Hermione replied, with half a glance at Draco. “There’s no point staying where we know dementors are swooping around, Patronuses or not. They’re likely here under Death Eater control, and we can’t risk anyone recognizing our Patronuses or seeing our faces.”

In the end they settled down for the night in a far-flung field belonging to a lonely farm, from which they had managed to obtain eggs and bread. “It’s not stealing, is it?” Hermione asked in a troubled voice, as they devoured scrambled eggs on toast. “Not if I left some money under the chicken coop?”

Ron rolled his eyes and said, with his cheeks bulging, “ ’Er-my-nee, ’oo worry ’oo much. ’Elax!”

And, indeed, it was much easier to relax when they were comfortably well fed: The argument about the dementors was forgotten in laughter that night, and Draco actually felt cheerful--even hopeful--as he took the first of the three night watches.

This was their first encounter with the fact that a full stomach meant good spirits, while an empty one guaranteed bickering and gloom.

Hermione bore up reasonably well on those nights when they managed to scavenge nothing but berries or stale biscuits, though her temper was perhaps a little shorter than usual and her silences rather dour. Draco, used to eating whenever he pleased while growing up in the Manor or sneaking to the Hogwarts kitchens for a snack at any hour, became a bit cranky, but his pureblood elite upbringing resulted in him trying to keep his temper to himself.

Ron, however, had always been used to three delicious meals a day, courtesy of his mother or the legions of Hogwarts house elves, and hunger made him both unreasonable and irascible. And whenever lack of food coincided with Ron’s turn to wear the Horcrux, he became downright unpleasant.

“So where next?” was his constant refrain. He did not seem to have any ideas himself, but expected Draco and Hermione to come up with plans while he sat and brooded over the low food supplies. Accordingly, Draco and Hermione spent fruitless hours trying to decide where they might find the other Horcruxes, and how to destroy the one they had already got, their conversations becoming increasingly repetitive as they had no new information.

As Dumbledore had told Draco that he believed Voldemort had hidden the Horcruxes in places important to him, they kept reciting, in a sort of dreary litany, those locations they knew that Voldemort had lived or visited....the orphanage where he had been born and raised; Hogwarts, where he had been educated; Borgin and Burkes, where he had worked after completing school; then Albania, where he had spent his years of exile.

These formed the basis of their speculations. “Yeah, let’s go to Albania. Shouldn’t take more than an afternoon to search an entire country,” Ron put in sarcastically one evening.

“There can’t be anything there. He’d already made five of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth,” Hermione added. “We know the snake’s not in Albania, it’s usually with Vol—”

“Didn’t I ask you to stop saying that?”

“Fine! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who—happy?”

“Not particularly.”

“I can’t see him hiding anything at Borgin and Burkes,” Draco interjected, who had made this point many times before, but said it again simply to break the nasty silence between the two Gryffindors. “Borgin and Burke were experts at Dark objects, they would’ve recognized a Horcrux straightaway.”

Ron yawned pointedly. Repressing a strong urge to throw something at him, Draco plowed on with his usual take. “I still reckon he might have hidden something at Hogwarts.”

Hermione sighed. “But Dumbledore would have found it, Draco.”

Draco simply repeated the argument he kept bringing out in favor of this theory. “Dumbledore said in front of me that he never assumed he knew all of Hogwarts’s secrets. I’m telling you, if there was one place Vol—”

“Oi!”

“Riddle, then!” Draco groaned, goaded past endurance. “If there was one place that was really important to Riddle, it was Hogwarts!”

“Oh, come on,” Ron scoffed. “His school?”

“Yes, his  _ school!  _ It was his first real home, the place that meant he was special; it meant everything to him, and even after he left—”

“That’s all well and good, sentimental even, but it’s bloody You-Know-Who we’re talking about,” Ron snorted. “He’s not clinging to a place because it felt cozy and safe, he doesn’t have the soul for that kind of caring.” He was tugging at the chain of the Horcrux around his neck, and Draco was visited by an unpleasant desire to seize it and throttle him.

“You told us that Riddle asked Dumbledore to give him a job after he left,” Hermione spoke up again.

“That’s right,” Draco confirmed.

“And Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come back to try and find something, probably another founder’s object, to make into another Horcrux?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t get the job, did he?” Hermione pointed out. “So he never got the chance to find a founder’s object there and hide it in the school!”

“Okay, then,” Draco finally conceded, defeated by her reasoning. “Forget Hogwarts.”

Without any other leads, they traveled into London and, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, searched for the orphanage in which Voldemort had been raised. Hermione stole into a library and discovered from their records that the place had been demolished many years before. They visited its site and found a tower block of offices. “We could try digging in the foundations?” Hermione suggested halfheartedly.

“He wouldn’t have hidden a Horcrux here,” Draco replied.

He had known that all along: the orphanage had been the place that Voldemort had been determined to escape from his earliest youth; he would never have hidden a part of his soul there. Dumbledore had shown Draco that Voldemort sought grandeur or mystique in his hiding places; this dismal gray corner of London was as far removed as you could imagine from Hogwarts or the Ministry or a building like Gringotts, the Wizarding bank, with its golden doors and marble floors.

Even without any new ideas, they continued to move through the countryside, pitching the tent in a different place each night for the sake of security. Every morning they made sure that they had removed all clues to their presence, then set off to find another lonely and secluded spot, traveling by Apparition to more woods, to the shadowy crevices of cliffs, to purple moors, gorse-covered mountainsides, and once a sheltered and pebbly cove.

Every twelve hours or so they passed the Horcrux between them as though they were playing some perverse, slow-motion game of pass-the-parcel, where they dreaded the music stopping because the reward was twelve hours of increased fear and anxiety.

Draco’s arm kept prickling and stinging. It happened much more often, he noticed, when he was wearing the Horcrux. And with equally-increasing frequency, when the Horcrux hung around his neck, Draco would feel his thoughts slipping away from him only to refocus--usually with a sharp inhalation of pain--to find that he was digging his nails into the Dark Mark, as if his subconscious was desperate to tear the symbol right out of his flesh.

Hermione clearly noticed this rising trend, as well; she began to keep the promised eye on his behaviors, and when it was Draco’s turn to wear the locket she was almost always in line-of-sight to him. And each time she managed to spot him reaching for his arm, she’d try and intervene, to bring him back to the present and to stop his fingers from reaching their target.

As the days stretched into weeks, Ron’s patience seemed to fray more and more badly, almost savage when it was his turn with the locket. Several times he could enter or exit the tent abruptly to wherever Draco and Hermione might be, and he would look at the pair of them sitting together as if some dark theory had been confirmed, scowling and turning to walk right back to whatever he had been doing prior without saying a word to them.

Draco could not help wondering whether Ron had only agreed to come on what now felt like a pointless and rambling journey because he had assumed that Draco had some secret plan, that he would share with the pair of them in due course.

Ron was making no effort to hide his chronic bad mood, to the point that Draco found himself trying to intervene when possible in order to shield Hermione from her best friend’s waspishness. But even that seemed to have negative consequences, because it came to the point where it seemed as if Ron became disgruntled just seeing the two of them in the same space. He withdrew into a constant sullen silence, and Draco felt helpless to ease Ron’s seemingly simmering agitation, unsure of what exactly was causing it at any given time.

“It’s just--all of it,” Hermione tried to assure him, huddled by their tiny cooking stove for warmth. Noticing her shivers, Draco reached over to cradle both of her hands between his, and she smiled at him tenderly. “Cold, hungry, uncertain...he doesn’t mean it, any of the harsh things that he may say. He’s always been on the quicker end, temper-wise. I promise it’ll all improve. Once...”

“Once we find a real next step, I know.” Draco sighed, lifting her hands and breathing over them to try and warm her nerve endings before kissing the knuckles gently. “We’ll get through this.”

The tent flap stirred, and Draco released her hands, sitting back and sighing again as Ron strode in without a word. He put down the dry kindling he’d collected in his good hand and stalked back to the bunk beds without a word to them.

Autumn rolled properly over the countryside as they roamed through it. They were now pitching the tent on mulches of fallen leaves, thick and sodden. Natural mists joined those cast by the dementors; wind and rain further added to their troubles.

The fact that Hermione was getting better at identifying edible fungi and plant-life could not altogether compensate for their continuing isolation, the lack of other people’s company, or their total ignorance of what was going on in the war against Voldemort--but it was something. Draco did his best to help her, taking whatever food stuff she found and working to make semi-decent dishes out of them, but there was only so much that could be done. And he’d only ever nurtured his liking of cooking as a hobby, never expecting to be the primary provider in tough conditions like this.

“My mother,” Ron declared one night, as they sat in the tent on a riverbank in Wales. “...can make good food appear out of thin air.” He prodded moodily at the lumps of charred gray fish on his plate. It was decent meat, but there was nothing in the way of seasoning to be found on the cold, barren earth, and that really would have made all the difference.

Draco glanced automatically at Ron’s neck and saw, as he had expected, the golden chain of the Horcrux glinting there. He managed to fight down the impulse to swear at Ron, whose attitude would, he knew, improve slightly when the time came to take off the locket.

“Your mother can’t produce food out of thin air,” Hermione countered tiredly. “No one can. Food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfigur—”

“Oh, speak English, can’t you?” Ron snapped, prising a fish bone out from between his teeth.

“It’s impossible to make good food out of nothing! You can Summon it if you know where it is, you can transform it, you can increase the quantity if you’ve already got some—”

“Well, don’t bother increasing this, it’s disgusting,” Ron interrupted her.

“It’s a miracle we managed to catch the fish, and Draco did his best with it!” Hermione sighed. “Why are we always responsible for trying to make the food situation work, anyway? I suppose it’s on me because I’m the girl.”

“No, it’s because you’re supposed to be the best at magic!” Ron shot back, jabbing at the fish. “And Draco is supposedly a great cook--seems fair to assume that the pair of you could manage!”

Hermione jumped up, and bits of roast pike slid off her tin plate onto the floor. “You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, you can find the ingredients and try and charm them into something worth eating, and I’ll sit here and pull faces and moan and you can see how you—”

“Stop talking!” Draco gasped, leaping to his feet as well, and holding up both hands.

Hermione looked outraged. “How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook—”

“Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!” Draco was listening hard, his hands still raised, warning them both not to be silent.

Then, over the rush and roar of the dark river beside their campsite, he heard the sound of voices again. He looked around at the Sneakoscope; it was not moving. “You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?” he whispered to Hermione.

“I did everything,” she whispered back, her anger evaporating as she stared wide-eyed at the tent flap. “Muffliato, Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, all of it. They shouldn’t be able to hear or see us, whoever they are.”

Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of dislodged stones and twigs, told them that several people were clambering down the steep, wooded slope that descended to the narrow bank where they had pitched the tent. They drew their wands, waiting. The enchantments they had cast around themselves ought to be sufficient, in the near total darkness, to shield them from the notice of Muggles and normal witches and wizards.

If these were Death Eaters, however, then perhaps their defenses were about to be tested by Dark Magic for the first time.

The voices became louder but no more intelligible as the group of men reached the bank. Draco estimated that the speakers were fewer than twenty feet away, but the cascading river made it impossible to tell for sure.

Hermione snatched up the beaded bag and started to rummage; after a moment she drew out three Extendable Ears and threw one each to Draco and Ron, who hastily inserted the ends of the flesh-colored strings into their ears and fed the other ends out of the tent entrance.

Within seconds Draco heard a weary male voice, now much clearer. “There ought to be a few salmon in here, or d’you reckon it’s too early in the season?  _ Accio Salmon!”  _ There were several distinct splashes and then the slapping sounds of fish against flesh. Somebody grunted appreciatively.

Draco pressed the Extendable Ear deeper into his own: Over the murmur of the river he could make out more voices, but they were not speaking English or any human language he had ever heard. It was a rough and unmelodious tongue, a string of rattling, guttural noises, and there seemed to be two speakers, one with a slightly lower, slower voice than the other.

A fire danced into life on the other side of the canvas; large shadows passed between their tent and flames. The delicious smell of baking salmon wafted tantalizingly in their direction. Then came the clinking of cutlery on plates, and the first man spoke again. “Here, Griphook, Gornuk.”

_ Goblins!  _ Hermione mouthed at Draco, who nodded in agreement; those were undeniably Goblin names. He even recognized one of them vaguely--Draco thought that one of these two might have been relatively important at Gringotts.

“Thank you,” the goblins said together in English.

“So, you three have been on the run for how long?” asked a new, mellow, and pleasant voice; Draco found himself picturing a round-bellied, cheerful-faced man upon hearing it.

“Six weeks...seven...I forget,” replied the tired male voice. “Met up with Griphook in the first couple of days and joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have a bit of company.” There was a pause, while knives scraped plates and tin mugs were picked up and replaced on the ground. “What made you leave, Ted?” continued the man.

“Knew they were coming for me,” replied mellow-voiced Ted, and Draco’s mind drifted to the only Ted he’d ever heard of--Tonks’s father. Surely this man, right outside, couldn’t be his uncle. “Heard Death Eaters were in the area last week and decided I’d better run for it. Refused to register as a Muggleborn on principle, see, so I knew it was a matter of time, knew I’d have to leave in the end. My wife should be okay, she’s pureblood.”

Draco covered his mouth, eyes widening, though Ron and Hermione were too focused to notice. It was impossible, too coincidental--this had to be Ted Tonks. Draco’s uncle, who he hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting along with his aunt Andromeda, so close to them...and so far out of reach. “And then I met Dean here, what, a few days ago, son?” Ted continued, a little more cheerfully.

“Yeah,” came another voice, and Draco, Ron, and Hermione all startled as they looked at each other; that was almost certainly the voice of Dean Thomas, their fellow Gryffindor and DA member.

“Muggleborn, eh?” asked the first man.

“Not sure,” Dean replied. “My dad left my mum when I was a kid. I’ve got no proof he was a wizard, though.” There was silence for a while, except for the sounds of munching; then Ted spoke again.

“I’ve got to say, Dirk, I’m surprised to run into you. Pleased, but surprised. Word was you’d been caught.”

“I was,” Dirk replied heavily. “I was halfway to Azkaban when I made a break for it, Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his broom. It was easier than you’d think; I don’t reckon he’s quite right at the moment. Might’ve be Confunded. If so, I’d like to shake the hand of the witch or wizard who did it, probably saved my life.”

There was another pause in which the fire crackled and the river rushed on. Then Ted asked, “And where do you two fit in? I, er, had the impression the goblins were for You-Know-Who, on the whole.”

“You had a false impression,” said the higher-voiced of the goblins. “We take no sides. This is a wizards’ war.”

“How come you’re in hiding, then?” Draco rolled his eyes; goblins were notoriously private and picky about disclosing information. Surely it would be clear from their faces that these two weren’t looking to confide in their human companions.

“I deemed it prudent,” the deeper-voiced goblin replied. “Having refused what I considered an impertinent request, I could see that my personal safety was in jeopardy.”

“What did they ask you to do?” Ted asked curious.

“Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race,” the goblin said softly, his voice rougher and less human as he said it. “I am not a house elf.” Draco saw Hermione wince, and he reached out to touch her hand; she sighed soundlessly, nodding and squeezing his fingers.

“What about you, Griphook?”

“Similar reasons,” the higher-voiced goblin said. “Gringotts is no longer under the sole control of my race. I recognize no Wizarding master.” He added something under his breath in Gobbledegook, and Gornuk laughed grimly.

“What’s the joke?” Dean asked.

“He aid,” Dirk interjected, “That there are things wizards don’t recognize, either.”

There was a short pause. “I don’t get it,” Dean said.

“I had my small revenge before I left,” Griphook said, once more in English.

“Good man—goblin, I should say,” Ted amended hastily. “Didn’t manage to lock a Death Eater up in one of the old high-security vaults, I suppose?”

“If I had, the sword would not have helped him break out,” Griphook replied, and Gornuk laughed again. Even Dirk gave a dry chuckle.

“Dean and I are still missing something here, I think,” Ted said ruefully.

“So is Severus Snape, though he does not know it,” Griphook remarked, and the two goblins now roared with malicious laughter. Inside the tent, Draco breathing stopped. He and Hermione traded a fast look, listening as hard as they could.

“Didn’t you hear about that, Ted?” Dirk asked. “About the kids who tried to steal Gryffindor’s sword out of Snape’s office at Hogwarts?”

An electric current seemed to course through Draco, jangling his every nerve as he stood rooted to the spot. The Sword--and Gryffindors--was it Dumbledore’s Army? But they’d have known that Severus was an ally...

“Never heard a word,” Ted replied. “Not in the Prophet, was it?”

“Hardly,” Dirk chuckled. “Griphook here told me, he heard about it from Bill Weasley who works for the bank. One of the kids who tried to take the sword was Bill’s younger sister.”

Draco glanced back at Hermione and Ron, both of whom were clutching the Extendable Ears as tightly as lifelines. “She and a couple of friends got into Snape’s office and smashed open the glass case where he was apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them as they were trying to smuggle it down the staircase.”

Closing his eyes, Draco struggled for breath.  _ Ginny....why? And Neville, had to be--but  _ why?

“Ah, God bless ’em,” Ted said, laughing. “What did they think, that they’d be able to use the sword on You-Know-Who? Or on Snape himself?”

“Well, whatever they thought they were going to do with it, Snape decided the sword wasn’t safe where it was,” Dirk replied. “Couple of days later, once he’d got the say-so from You-Know-Who, I imagine, he sent it down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead.”

The goblins started to laugh again. “I’m still not seeing the joke,” Ted said.

“It’s a fake,” Griphook rasped. “The sword of Gryffindor--it is a copy. An excellent copy, it is true—but it was Wizard-made. The original was forged centuries ago by goblins and had certain properties only goblin-made armor possesses. Wherever the genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at Gringotts bank.”

“I see,” Ted said, sounding bemused. “And I take it you didn’t bother telling the Death Eaters this?”

“I saw no reason to trouble them with the information,” Griphook confirmed smugly, and now Ted and Dean joined in on Gornuk and Dirk’s laughter.

Inside the tent, Draco re-opened his eyes, willing someone to ask the question he most needed answered, and after a minute that seemed to drag out into ten, Dean obliged; he was, after all, an ex-boyfriend of Ginny’s and no doubt concerned by this news, same as the three huddled invisibly nearby. “What happened to Ginny and the others? The ones who tried to steal it?”

“Oh, they were punished, and cruelly,” Griphook replied indifferently.

“They’re okay, though?” Ted asked quickly. “I mean, the Weasleys don’t need any more of their kids injured, do they?”

“They suffered no serious injury, as far as I am aware,” Griphook said dismissively.

“Lucky for them,” Ted said softly. “With Snape’s track record I suppose we should just be glad they’re still alive.” Draco made himself inhale deeply, and then startled as Hermione’s hand found his; he’d been reaching for the Dark Mark again. He swallowed, nodding to indicate that he was alright, refocusing fiercely on the conversation.

“You believe that story, then, do you, Ted?” Dirk asked curiously. “You that believe Snape killed Dumbledore?”

“’Course I do,” Ted replied. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me you really think Harry Potter’s best mates had anything to do with it? Pair ‘o kids?”

“Hard to know what to believe these days,” Dirk muttered.

“I know Ron and Hermione,” Dean interjected. “And I reckon that since we’ve lost Harry—the Chosen One, or whatever you want to call it--then they’re our best bet.” There was something behind his tone, a hint of the fervor that he’d shown when he was learning alongside Seamus in the DA, and Draco had a feeling that the Gryffindor was mentally lumping Draco in with his Housemates as he spoke in their defense.

“Yeah, there’s a lot who would like to believe that, son,” Dirk said gently. “Me included. But where are they then? Run for it, by the looks of things. You’d think, if they knew anything we don’t, or had anything special going for them, they’d be out there now fighting, rallying resistance, instead of hiding. And you know, the Prophet made a pretty good case against them—”

“The Prophet?” Ted scoffed. “You deserve to be lied to if you’re still reading that muck, Dirk. You want the facts, try the Quibbler.”

There was a sudden explosion of choking and retching, plus a good deal of thumping; by the sound of it, Dirk had swallowed a fish bone. At last he spluttered, “The Quibbler? That lunatic rag of Xeno Lovegood’s?”

“It’s not so lunatic these days,” Ted countered. “You want to give it a look. Xeno is printing all the stuff the Prophet’s ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter’s supporters their number-one priority.”

“Hard to help folks who’ve vanished off the face of the earth,” Dirk pointed out.

“Listen, the fact that they haven’t caught them yet is one hell of an achievement,” Ted argued. “I’d take tips from them gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do, stay free, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there,” Dirk allowed heavily. “With the whole of the Ministry and all their informers looking for them...I’d have expected them to be caught by now. Mind, who’s to say they haven’t already caught and killed them without publicizing it?”

“Ah, don’t say that, Dirk,” Ted murmured. There was a long pause filled with more clattering of knives and forks.

When they spoke again, it was to discuss whether they ought to sleep on the bank or retreat back up the wooded slope. Deciding the trees would give better cover, they extinguished their fire, then clambered back up the incline, their voices gradually fading away.

Draco, Ron, and Hermione reeled in the Extendable Ears. Draco, who had found the need to remain silent increasingly difficult the longer they eavesdropped, now found himself unable to say more than, “Ginny—the sword—"

“I know!” Hermione gasped. She lunged for the tiny beaded bag, this time sinking her arm in it right up to the armpit. “Here...we...are...” she said between gritted teeth, and she pulled at something that was evidently in the depths of the bag.

Slowly the edge of an ornate picture frame came into sight, and Draco reached out to help her. As they lifted the empty portrait of Phineas Nigellus free of Hermione’s bag, she kept her wand pointing at it, ready to cast a spell at any moment. “If somebody swapped the real sword for the fake while it was in Dumbledore’s office,” she panted, as they propped the painting against the side of the tent, “Phineas Nigellus would have seen it happen, he hangs right beside the case!”

“Unless he was asleep,” Draco pointed out; but he still held his breath as Hermione knelt down in front of the empty canvas, her wand directed at its center.

She cleared her throat, then said: “Er—Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?” Nothing happened. “Phineas Nigellus?” Hermione called again. “Professor Black? Please could we talk to you? Please?”

“‘Please’ always helps,” came a cold, snide voice, and Phineas Nigellus slid into his portrait. At once, Hermione cried: “Obscuro!”

A black blindfold appeared over Phineas’ clever, dark eyes, causing him to bump into the frame and shriek with pain. “What—how dare—what are you— ?”

“I’m so very sorry, Professor Black,” Hermione said hastily, “But it’s a necessary precaution!”

“Remove this foul addition at once! Remove it, I say! You are ruining a great work of art! Where am I? What is going on?”

“Never mind where we are,” Draco interrupted tiredly, and Phineas froze, abandoning his attempts to peel off the painted blindfold. “Can that possibly be the voice of my elusive nephew, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Maybe,” Draco said lightly, knowing that this would at least pique Phineas’ interest. “We’ve got a couple of questions to ask you—about the sword of Gryffindor.”

“Ah,” said Phineas, now turning his head this way and that in an effort to catch sight of Draco and failing, “Yes. That silly girl acted most unwisely there—”

“Shut up about my sister,” Ron snapped angrily.

Phineas raised supercilious eyebrows. “Who else is here?” he asked, turning his head from side to side. “Your tone displeases me! The girl and her friends were foolhardy in the extreme. Thieving from the headmaster!”

“They weren’t thieving,” Draco protested. “Severus is on our side. And the sword doesn’t belong to him.”

“It belongs to Professor Snape’s school,” Phineas countered. “Exactly what claim did the Weasley girl have upon it? She deserved her punishment, as did the idiot Longbottom and the Lovegood oddity!”

“Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!” Hermione replied, now a little annoyed.

“Where am I?” Phineas repeated testily, starting to wrestle with the blindfold again. “Where have you brought me? Why have you removed me from the house of my forebears?”

“Never mind that! How did Severus punish Ginny, Neville, and Luna?” Draco demanded urgently. Severus was still Dumbledore’s, the entire Order knew he was on their side; surely if Dumbledore’s Army remained strong and active at Hogwarts, then Ginny would have found a way to let them know that. If he had to punish them, then hopefully he knew better than to leave them at the mercy of the Carrow siblings.

“Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest, to do some work for the oaf, Hagrid.”

“Hagrid’s not an oaf!” Hermione said sharply.

Still, Draco took a breath of relief. “Good. The Carrows are horrendous...Severus probably had a good chuckle at their expense. Working in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid was probably the tamest thing he could do for Ginny and the others.”

Hermione looked a bit relieved as well, and she nodded before turning her attention back to the canvas. “What we really wanted to know, Professor Black, is whether anyone else has, um, taken out the sword at all? Maybe it’s been taken away for cleaning or—or something?”

Phineas paused again in his struggles to free his eyes and sniggered. “Muggleborns,” he said derisively. “Goblin-made armor does not require cleaning, simple girl. Goblins’ silver repels mundane dirt, imbibing only that which strengthens it.”

“Don’t call Hermione simple.” Now Draco was getting more annoyed than curious about what his distant relative could tell them. Honestly, how did anyone put up with anyone from the Black family, if this man was the founder of their bloodline? “She’s one of the most powerful and brightest witches in the country.”

“I grow weary of contradiction,” Phineas said coldly. “Perhaps it is time for me to return to the headmaster’s office?” Still blindfolded, he began groping the side of his frame, trying to feel his way out of his picture and back into the one at Hogwarts.

“Professor Black,” Hermione tried once more, “Couldn’t you just tell us, please, when was the last time the sword was taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I mean?”

Phineas snorted impatiently. “I believe that the last time I saw the sword of Gryffindor leave its case was when Professor Dumbledore used it to break open a ring.”

Hermione whipped around to look at Draco; neither of them dared say more in front of Phineas, who had at last managed to locate the exit. “Well, goodnight to you,” he said a little waspishly, and he began to move out of sight again.

Only the edge of his hat brim remained in view when Draco gave a sudden shout. “Wait! Can you at least tell Severus that we’re safe? That we’re alive? He’ll be able to pass along that message to the right people.”

Phineas stuck his blindfolded head back into the picture. “I am not your messenger boy, Mr Malfoy…But I suppose, for a blood relation, I can at least say that much. Bye-bye now!” And with that, he vanished completely, leaving behind him nothing but his murky backdrop.

“Draco!” Hermione cried, jumping to her feet and whirling to face him, her face alight with happiness.

“I know!” Draco shouted. Unable to contain himself, he too jumped to his feet, grabbing her around the waist and twirling her in the air, before setting her back down, cheeks flushing a bit. “At least we have news. That’s better than nothing.” With that, he released her reluctantly, allowing Hermione to squash Phineas’ portrait back into the beaded bag; when she had fastened the clasp she threw the bag aside and raised a shining face to Draco.

“The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades imbibe only that which strengthens them—Draco, that sword’s impregnated with basilisk venom! Harry used it to kill the basilisk when he had to save Ginny during our second year!”

“And Dumbledore didn’t give it to me because he still needed it, he wanted to use it on the locket—”

“—and he must have realized they wouldn’t let you have it if he put it in his will—”

“—so he made a copy—”

“—and put a fake in the glass case—”

“—and he left the real one—where?” They gazed at each other; Draco felt that the answer was dangling invisibly in the air above them, tantalizingly close. Why hadn’t Dumbledore  _ told _ him? Or had he, in fact, told Draco, but Draco had not realized it at the time?

“Think!” Hermione whispered urgently. “Think! Where would he have left it?”

“Not at Hogwarts,” Draco mused, beginning to pace, his mind racing so fast he felt like his head might catch on fire.

“Somewhere in Hogsmeade?” Hermione suggested.

“The Shrieking Shack?” Draco said quietly. “Nobody ever goes in there.”

“Except for Snape,” Hermione said. At Draco’s puzzled look, she chuckled. “Long story from third year. Point is, he knows how to get in.” Then she paused, brows furrowing. “Wait…do you think Snape knew the sword was a copy?”

“He might have,” Draco said. “He’s working as Headmaster under Dumbledore’s orders. Obviously they trusted each other on a level they didn’t trust anyone else. If Severus knew the sword was a fake…But who knows if he knows where the real one is? What do you reckon, Ron? ...Ron?”

Draco looked around. For one bewildered moment he thought that Ron had left the tent, then realized that Ron was lying in the shadow of his bunk, looking stony.

“Oh, remembered me, have you?” he said.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

Ron snorted as he stared up at the underside of the upper bunk. “You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.”

Perplexed, Draco looked to Hermione for help, but she shook her head, apparently as nonplussed as he was. “What’s the problem?” Draco asked, turning to face the redhead in bewilderment.

“Problem? There’s no problem,” Ron replied, still refusing to look at Draco. “Not according to you, anyway.”

There were several plunks on the canvas over their heads; it was starting to rain. “Well, you’ve obviously got a problem,” Draco pointed out, frowning more deeply. “Spit it out, will you?”

Ron swung his long legs off the bed and sat up. He looked mean, unlike himself, and it made something cold and uncomfortable settle in Draco’s stomach. “All right, I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up and down the tent because there’s some other damn thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don’t know.”

“I don’t know?” Draco repeated. _ “I  _ don’t know?”

_ Plunk, plunk, plunk.  _ The rain was falling harder and heavier; it pattered on the leaf-strewn bank all around them and into the river chattering through the dark. Dread doused Draco’s jubilation: Ron was saying exactly what he had suspected and feared him to be thinking in the past several weeks.

“It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here,” Ron snapped. “You know, with my arm mangled, and nothing to eat, and freezing my backside off every night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been running round a few weeks, we’d have achieved something.”

“Ron,” Hermione began, but in such a quiet voice that Ron could pretend not to have heard it over the loud tattoo the rain was now beating on the tent.

“I thought you knew what you’d signed up for,” Draco said, lip curling a little as he finally began to rise to the bait that Ron was dangling in front of his face. Weeks of this kind of treatment, of Ron running hot and cold, and then colder; Draco was starting to get sick and tired of the constant attitude. “You said it yourself, remember? You knew what you were getting into.”

“Yeah, I thought I did, too.”

“So what part of it isn’t living up to your expectations?” Draco demanded, flinging his arms wide open. Anger was coming to his defense now. “Did you think we’d be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?”

“We thought you knew what you were doing!” Ron shouted, standing up, and his words pierced Draco like scaldig knives. “We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!”

“Ron!” Hermione protested, this time clearly audible over the rain thundering on the tent roof--but again, he ignored her.

“Well, sorry to have let you down,” Draco replied, his voice dripping with ice. “I’ve been straight with you from the start, I told you everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve found one Horcrux—”

“Yeah, and we’re about as near getting rid of it as we are to finding the rest of them—nowhere fucking near, in other words!”

“Take off the locket, Ron,” Hermione pleaded, her voice unusually high. “Please take it off. You wouldn’t be talking like this if you hadn’t been wearing it all day.”

“Yes, he would,” Draco said, who did not want excuses made for Ron any longer. “Now that we’re out here in the real world, facing things like this, suddenly it’s not an exciting adventure for him, isn’t it? At least I had the foresight to know that we weren’t going to be making a shitload of progress every other week. I was realistic. That’s why I tried to tell you that you shouldn’t come, but you talked over me and insisted that you should!”

“Oh well, forgive me for thinking we’d know something by now!” Ron looked absolutely murderous; if it wasn’t for his arm in a sling still, Draco thought the redhead would try to take a swing at him. “You’re the Slytherin here, you should have been able to slip your way into something by now…oh wait, you probably already have, haven’t you?” Now there was contempt underlying the rage in Ron’s tone.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Draco demanded, bewildered and incensed.

In answer, Ron’s eyes flicked to Hermione, who was staring at him with tears sliding down her face. “You don’t think I haven’t noticed?” he asked her darkly. “The way you two sneak around, how you look at each other, how you pull away when I come into the room? I’m not stupid. I may not compare to the smartest witch of our age, but I’m not a total  _ idiot.” _

The silence that fell was heavier than anything Draco had felt thus far, with only the pouring rain on the tent the only thing to punctuate the uncomfortable silence. Then Hermione gave a small shiver. “Ron, please…It’s not what you think, everything is just so scary right now, we didn’t want--”

“You didn’t want what? To let your own best friend know that you were shagging a bloke who called you a Mudblood for four years and even rooted for your  _ death _ when we were twelve?”

The blow from that was so low it felt like a physical punch in the gut. “Don’t you fling that back in my face,” Draco hissed. “Don’t you throw my past back at me, especially not now. I’ve done everything to prove I’ve changed, I turned my back on my family for you--”

“Yeah, your family,” Ron sneered. “Your Death Eater parents--”

“Only my father--”

“And once upon a time, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?” Ron shot back. “You were just like him, really, strutting around and acting all high and mighty.”

“I was a  _ child,” _ Draco snarled. “I made mistakes! I’ll never forgive myself for them, but I’ve changed, and you know that! You have no idea what it was like, being in my own home, being surrounded by people who could have killed me without a second thought! My own parents think I’m dead!”

“And my family could die any day! You act like you don’t care!”

“Of course I care! I came to the right side because I  _ care,  _ because of what happened to Cedric, and Harry--”

“You didn’t care about Harry,” Ron cut in. “You didn’t even know him. He  _ hated _ you. You can act like it all you want, but don’t pretend like you felt anything about what happened to him. He was my best friend _ \--you _ never meant anything to him.”

Draco saw red then. “Oh, but you were perfect, were you? Abandoning him in fourth year during the Triwizard Tournament? He’d be so proud to see you like this right now, wouldn’t he? Acting a coward.”

Ron yanked his wand out of his pocket, and Draco did the same; but Hermione rushed between them, openly weeping now as she put her hands out as if to block them both by sheer will alone. “Stop it!” she cried. “Stop it, the both of you! Please, this isn’t like either one of you!”

“Don’t be daft Hermione, this is what Slytherins do,” Ron said.

“If you have such an issue with Slytherins, then stay away from Pansy!” Draco snapped. “If you have such an issue with Slytherins, then just  _ leave!” _

“Maybe I will!”

“Go ahead, Weasel, I’m not bloody stopping you.” With a fast wand motion, Ron’s knapsack flew into Draco’s hand, still packed with clothes and food and a tiny bit of money that they could spare, and he threw it towards the tent flap, giving an exaggerated bow. “Don’t let the tent flap hit you on your way out.”

For one split second, Draco hoped, desperately, that Ron would refuse. That this could snap him out of whatever rage he was in and maybe they could fix this.

But he saw the way those blue eyes turned cold. Ron simply strode to the entrance, picking up the knapsack and sliding it onto his shoulder before taking off the Horcrux and throwing it back onto his bed. Then he turned to Hermione, who was watching his actions in a state of visible shock. “Are you coming?”

She blinked, stunned. “W-what? No! Ron, we have a mission, I-I can’t leave--we have a job to do--”

“Sure,” Ron said snidely, his eyes cutting from her to Draco. “Right, there’s plenty for you to  _ do.  _ I never thought you’d fucking choose  _ him.”  _ With one last disgusted look at Draco, he pushed through the flap of the tent and vanished into the rainy night.

“Ron, no—please—come back, come back!” Hermione rushed after him into the darkness, but he had already stormed away; Draco couldn’t hear any trace of him, only Hermione’s voice, frantically calling his name from within the boundaries, where the nearby humans and goblins could not hear here.

Draco stood quite still and silent, listening to her sobbing and calling Ron’s name amongst the trees for many more minutes than was worth trying.

After a few minutes she returned, her sopping hair plastered to her face. “He’s g-g-gone! Disapparated!” She threw herself into her usual chair, curled up, and continued to cry, balling in on herself tightly.

Draco just felt dazed. He stooped, picked up the Horcrux, and placed it around his own neck. Grabbing the blankets off of Hermione’s bunk, he moved mechnically to her side and gently draped them over her, trying not to react when she did not even look at him but simply went on sobbing.

Forcing himself away from her, Draco climbed onto his own bed and stared up at the dark canvas roof, listening to the pounding of the rain. His hand drifted back to his arm, clawing at the Dark Mark again, but this time, he didn’t even notice.


	34. Lift Me Back Up to the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If not for the looming darkness of being in a literal war, and despair over not knowing what to bloody well do next as far as the Horcruxes were concerned...Draco might have actually found their current arrangement bizarrely domestic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of feels in this chapter. :D

When Draco woke the following morning, it took a few seconds for him to remember what happened last night; a small part of him, almost foolishly, hoped it had been a dream, that the fight never happened and that Ron was here. But when he rolled over in his bed, he found that Ron’s bunk was still empty.

It made his chest ache a bit, some of the harsh words the redhead had fired at him still ringing in his ears. After a long moment, Draco finally sat up, only to feel his arm sting. He looked down, finding fresh scratch marks, some of them still bleeding very lightly.  _ Fantastic. _

Hermione, who was already busy in the kitchen trying to prepare some breakfast, said nothing, but she looked back to make eye contact with him and muster up a small smile. Draco didn’t like how tired and pale she looked, with dark circles under her eyes; but he didn’t mention it, only managing a small smile back before climbing out of bed and going to grab the dittany bottle. He rubbed a few drops into his arm and watched as the scratch marks healed, leaving the Dark Mark intact as always.

It seemed like nothing he did to it would break the dark tattoo, the ugly soulless skull glaring up at him as if mocking his every effort against it.

They ate in silence, a rather bland breakfast of oatmeal from ration packets that Hermione had gotten from a shop in the last town. But Draco hardly minded, still wrapped up in thoughts about Ron; he wondered where he had gone, or if he would come back.

Did he even want to come back? Would he have returned to the Burrow somehow? Would he have to fake getting better from his “illness,” and be sent to Hogwarts post-haste? Attendance for halfblood and pureblood children was now mandatory, after all, with harsh punishments towards those who tried to leave or stay at home.

Draco did find one small bit of comfort at that thought; Pansy would absolutely slap Ron in the face if he was forced to return, and she found out that he had abandoned Draco and Hermione on the Horcrux Hunt to fend for themselves without him. Love or not, loyalty was what drove Pansy forward, and her loyalty had always been to Draco first.

Once breakfast was done, they began to pack their things, both of them dawdling without wanting to admit that they were doing so.

Draco knew they both had hope that the next time they heard twigs snapping, or a small rustle of leaves in the wind, that they would look up to find Ron returning. But every time they let themselves look around, they saw nothing but rain-swept woods. The only other living being that they saw was a lone doe and her two fawns, walking a short distance away and ignoring the two teenagers completely.

The muddy river beside them was rising rapidly and would soon spill over onto their bank. They had lingered a good hour after they would usually have departed their campsite. Finally having entirely repacked the beaded bag three times, Hermione seemed unable to find any more reasons to delay; she and Draco grasped hands and Disapparated, reappearing on a windswept, heather-covered hillside.

The instant they arrived, Hermione dropped Draco’s hand and walked away from him, finally sitting down on a large rock, her face on her knees, shaking with what he knew were sobs.

He watched her, knowing that he ought to go and comfort her...but something kept him rooted to the spot. Everything inside him felt cold and tight: again, in his mind, he saw the contemptuous expression on Ron’s face, heard his harsh unforgiving tone, all of the accusations that he’d hurled at him.

Draco strode off through the heather, walking in a large circle with the distraught Hermione at its center, casting the spells she usually performed to ensure their protection.

They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few days. Draco was determined never to mention his name again, and Hermione seemed to know that it was no use forcing the issue, although sometimes at night when she thought he was sleeping, he could hear her crying.

A week of this kind of heavy silence dragged out, their routine now broken by the lack of Ron’s presence and voice, and the feeling of being unable to speak about it. Each time they departed from a camping spot, Hermione left some small token or mark--inconsequential, nothing that would betray their identities to the wrong finder, but something that Ron would recognize if he were to come to that spot.

Draco didn’t bother pointing out that their travels remained aimless and random, as they’d been all along. There was no way for Ron to track them, not unless they somehow sent him a message or made contact with other Order members. And they could not take those risks.

At the end of a week that felt more like a year, they were camped in a ravine with more rain pattering down on the tent roof. Draco was debating giving up on attempting sleep and perhaps making some tea when he heard movement; seconds later, Hermione appeared beside him, looking exhausted--but less empty and distant than she had over the last few days. “What’s--”

She waved a hand, hushing him, and then startled Draco further by lifting his blanket and simply sliding onto the bunk beside him. The beds were small, meant for single bodies, but she simply curled in tightly to his side, covering them both in the worn quilt and tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder. “I don’t want to sleep alone anymore.”

Draco blinked, feeling a lump slide into his throat. He wondered how many times that week she’d looked at him when he happened to be looking elsewhere, wanting to reach out--or needing him to do it, to soothe her after her best friend had walked out on her.

He’d been letting her down, it seemed. “Of course,” Draco murmured, making sure they were both well-covered, and wrapping his arms around her securely. “Anytime you like.”

After that night, Hermione did not return to her own bunk again. At some point in the following days, she even fiddled with some charmwork, and Draco said nothing--though he did smirk--when he came to bed to find that she had slightly enlarged his cot to more adequately fit two people, even if they did sleep curled around one another like a pair of cats.

Because they weren’t at Hogwarts, Draco hadn’t even thought of the Marauder’s Map in months, so it was a surprise when he entered the tent one evening and found Hermione examining it by wandlight beside their flickering little stove.

For a moment his heart panged, thinking that she must be watching to see if Ron did, indeed, reappear in the corridors, proving that he returned to the safety of the castle, protected as a pureblood and unimportant to the enemy because--after all--Harry Potter was dead. Ron was not a threat without the Boy Who Lived.

“I wanted to make sure that Ginny and Luna and Neville were okay,” Hermione said softly, breaking through Draco’s thoughts as they edged into bitter territory again. She looked up, smiling a little sadly, as if she could see exactly where his mind had gone. “Thought of it this morning--after the failed sword theft, I realized I could see for myself that they were going about business as usual.”

“And are they?”

“Mmhmm.” She turned the parchment, letting him see the little dot labeled  _ Ginny _ moving about the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory. Nearby, Neville was in the boys’ room, and in another tower, Hermione pointed out Luna’s name, possibly attending a class or study hall.

Draco swallowed, moving to sit on the floor beside the armchair and unfolding more of the Map’s corners and tabs. Hermione let him take it, carding her fingers through his hair gently as Draco worked his way down to the outline of the Slytherin dungeons. 

Again his heart squeezed, this time with joy, when Draco saw that Pansy and Theo’s dots were safely in the corner of the underground common room where the three of them had always worked together. Blaise was beside them, to his surprise, but Draco merely smiled, tracing one fingertip over his best friends’ names. “Everyone’s okay, still.”

His eyes jumped to one side; but Severus was not in the usual spot. Right, of course; Draco unfolded another portion of the map, exhaling when he saw his godfather’s name slowly pacing in circles around the Headmaster’s study. Closing the Map back up, Draco leaned back against the chair, tilting into Hermione’s gentle fingers as she lightly massaged his scalp.

“Don’t know how Muggles stand it when they can’t know for sure that a loved one is safe,” he told her softly. “I mean, I know this Map’s not exactly common, but--wizards have so many options. Floo, owls--though I suppose Muggles do have post, too--and Apparation. Outside of things like this mess, us being on the run...we’re so easily able to confirm if our families are safe.”

Hermione’s voice was edged with sadness. “It certainly can be agony.”

Draco remembered too late, and he swallowed hard. “Sorry, I--I didn’t mean to make you worry about your parents.”

She chuckled softly, brushing his lengthening bangs back from his forehead and pressing lightly to tip his face back so that he met her gaze. “I worry about them every single day, and will do so until this war’s over and I can--God willing--bring them safely home and return their memories. But it’s alright, I understood what you meant.” She leaned down, and Draco welcomed the kiss eagerly, reaching up to cup her jaw so that she couldn’t draw away immediately.

“Tell me about them?” he asked when they finally did draw apart. “I never got to ask before. Being curious about Muggles was worthy of being disowned in my family.”

“Oh really?” Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Are you telling me that before the great Draco Malfoy went spy, he was curious about Muggles?”

“Hard not to be when a Muggleborn girl keeps one-upping him in everything,” he teased. He sat up then, so he could turn and face her properly. “What are they like? What do they do?”

She looked momentarily touched that he was even asking, and her hand found his, giving his fingers a squeeze. “I’m an only child. I guess my mum had some fertility issues, or perhaps they only had the finances for one and didn’t think having a larger family was responsible. But they’re very kind and supportive. Even before I found out I was a witch, when odd things happened, they always took it in stride. And they were so proud of my marks in school. I always got the best, because I worked hard, and learning just seems so easy to me.”

“With a brain like yours, it definitely would have,” he remarked, grinning. “So what did they do? Profession-wise.”

“Dentists,” Hermione said. “They worked on teeth.”

Okay, that was...different. Draco blinked at her, momentarily baffled. “Teeth?”

She grinned then, nodding. “Teeth. It was what they went to university for, to learn about dental hygiene, and make it their profession. A nice, secure job that rarely ever loses opportunities.”

“But why teeth?”

“Muggles can’t use magic when their teeth go wonky or get diseased,” Hermione explained. “When they have cavities, they need them filled. When they’re diseased, they need to be pulled out. When they’re misshapen, they get braces--bits of metal and plastic wrapped around the teeth and tightened every so often to slowly straighten them out. That’s what they wanted to do for me when I was old enough, they wanted to give me braces.”

“But why?” Draco asked, more confused than ever. “Your teeth look fine to me.”

Her eyebrows rose again in some disbelief. “Are you telling me that you can’t remember a time when my front teeth were so large I practically looked like a beaver?”

It took Draco several long seconds of staring at her before her cheeks flushed. “Wait, you honestly don’t remember?”

“I remember accidentally hexing you with that spell that made your teeth grow,” Draco admitted. “But before that, no, I can’t really recall what your teeth looked like. You looked pretty normal to me back then. And you look lovely now.” Realizing the implications of his phrasing, he blushed. “Not that you ever didn’t look lovely, you know!”

Hermione laughed, before pulling him in for a soft kiss. “Honestly,” she teased. “If someone had suggested to me at thirteen or fourteen years old that I would end up dating  _ you, _ I would have assumed they’d been Confunded. But I’m glad I am...you’re far more charming than I ever expected.”

“Get used to it, Granger,” he replied, smirking. “I’m not going away for a very long time.”

From then on, they resumed trying to determine where Dumbledore could possibly have concealed the real Sword of Gryffindor. But the more they analyzed all of the places he might have considered, the more desperate and far-fetched their speculations became.

Draco tried, over and over again, to remember if Dumbledore had ever mentioned a place where he’d hide something so valuable. But in his own experience, the logical options--Gringotts, of course, or Hogwarts, or one’s own private home--didn’t fit.

Though to be fair, he had no idea if Dumbledore still had a home outside of Hogwarts that he’d ever return to. Aunt Muriel’s testimony regarding the Dumbledore family residing in Godric’s Hollow hadn’t made it seem as if the little town would be particularly sacred to the former Headmaster, at least not as much as it would have been for Harry Potter.

There were many moments when he did not know whether he was angrier with Ron or with Dumbledore.  _ We thought you knew what you were doing....We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do....We thought you had a real plan! _

He could not hide the reality from himself: Ron had been right. Dumbledore had left him with virtually nothing. They had discovered one Horcrux, but they had no means of destroying it. The others were as unattainable as they had ever been, even after all these months.

Hopelessness threatened to engulf Draco. He was staggered now to think of his own presumption in accepting his friends’ offers to accompany him on this meandering, pointless journey. He knew nothing, he had no ideas...and now he was developing an utterly unfounded but inescapable fear that Hermione, too, was mere days from telling him that she had also had enough, that she was leaving him as well.

It was a ridiculous concern, because despite the grief of Ron’s absence they seemed to be drawing closer together than ever. She slept pressed to his side, and it seemed that nightmares plagued them both less and less frequently as a result. Whenever they lucked onto any variation of real food, Draco taught her what tricks he knew about cooking, and together they puzzled through making meager ingredients into semi-decent meals.

If not for the looming darkness of being in a literal war, and despair over not knowing what to bloody well do next as far as the Horcruxes were concerned...Draco might have actually found their current arrangement bizarrely domestic.

One evening they settled in the lonely shadows of the Forest Dean, another light winter rain falling lightly around them. Hermione had nostalgically remarked that her parents had once brought her camping there, though it had been summer at the time. Draco had gone out to see what could be done for food, and she had stayed in to get a fire crackling so that the tent would stay warm and snug against the night’s chill.

When he returned, Draco stepped into the tent and began removing his heavier outer layers, then paused. Hermione was curled up in her chair, chin propped on one hand, eyes distant as she listened to quiet music playing from the tinny little radio that they’d found in the tent.

She was so beautiful. Draco had never not seen her as lovely, just as he’d told her--it had been a great thorn in his side, during their first years of school, when he’d desperately tried to banish such “improper” thoughts. Merlin knew what his father would’ve done if he’d somehow learned that his one and only son was longingly side-eyeing a  _ Muggleborn. _ But Hermione had been eye-catching, for better or for worse, and Draco had never been able to quite rid his mind of thoughts of her.

And now, he absolutely never intended to.

Impulse moved him forward, and Hermione glanced over as he approached, smiling drowsily. Draco glanced at the radio, pleased when he registered the soft, well-paced ballad that was playing. Reaching out, he took her hand, and Hermione let him pull her to her feet with a little noise of amused confusion.

Her expression cleared and she laughed aloud when he drew her close, placing her other hand on his shoulder and setting his own at her waist. “Really?” she asked teasingly, but she didn’t fight it as he began to sway, guiding them into a leisurely dance that--mostly--matched the rhythm of the quiet, staticky music.

It was a mix of proper steps and just...moving together, and it was perfect. Draco twirled her carefully, and Hermione gave another startled laugh, bright and alive and beautiful.

As the song wound down, he pulled her back to himself, looping his arm fully around her waist in order to press their bodies together completely. Hermione settled into his hold easily, her cheek coming to rest on his shoulder, and Draco kissed the top of her dark hair, feeling at peace--completely, not just a fragment of it--for the first time in weeks.

“I love you.” Her voice was so quiet, barely above a whisper, and if Draco’s heart didn’t feel as if it exploded at the murmured words, he might have wondered if he’d imagined it.

He didn’t think he’d ever found anything easier to say to her in all of the years he’d known her. “I love you, too.”

* * *

They took to just talking together in the evenings between whatever supper they managed, and sleeping. They traded childhood memories and thoughts on the magical and Muggle worlds, in an effort to understand each other better, and all of the differences in their upbringings.

It was a quiet night; they were in a new stretch of forest, encased in the usual protective spells, and experiencing a rare break from the constant on-and-off rainfall. Draco sat outside with a small fire that Hermione had produced to keep him warm while he kept watch, letting Hermione try to get a little rest between their bouts of traveling.

In the distance, he became acutely aware of something changing; there was movement, noises, people moving through the trees as if they were not afraid to be heard...which meant that they were almost certainly not allies.

The Sneak’oScope began to light up and spin, and Draco frowned, tugging his wand from his pocket. He got to his feet, carefully making his way closer to the perimeter of their protective spells, eyes scanning the trees in the darkness, trying to will himself some fucking night vision already. And wizards tried to claim that they were the master race, honestly.

“Draco?” Hermione’s voice behind him made him jump, and he turned to see her hurrying over to him, wand in hand as well. “What are you doing? What is--”

“Shh!” Draco put a finger to his lips, for he finally saw shadowy figures headed this way. As Hermione stepped closer to him, eyes widening, the strangers moved closer; finally they came into view under the moonlight trickling down through the tree cover.

Draco’s body went rigid when he recognized the biggest one of the bunch: Fenrir Greyback was leading the pack, with several Death Eaters following him and carrying unconscious--or at least, Draco desperately prayed that they were only unconscious--bodies in their arms or slung over their shoulders.

It was one of the most terrifying moments of Draco’s life.

As the men paused for a moment to catch their breaths, Greyback raised his head and sniffed at the air. Then his yellowed eyes narrowed, and he dropped the body he held, moving slowly closer to where Draco and Hermione were standing. Hermione’s hand found his; but Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t even let himself breathe, as the werewolf stood just beyond the boundary line, his nostrils flaring, eyes passing over them without seeing them.

“What is it?” one of the others called out, his voice warped due to the Muffliato spell between them, and Draco and Hermione.

“Something...enticing,” Greyback snarled quietly, and Draco saw a very thin line of drool slide from the werewolf’s mouth. “Something I haven’t smelled in a very long time…But I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Draco’s hands began to shake as he realized exactly what it was that Greyback was smelling.

For some semblance of normalcy, he still wore his cologne--Hermione had admitted to him, blushing delightfully, that it was part of what she had smelled in the Amortentia potion so long ago, and if that wasn’t a reason to continue using it then Draco didn’t know what would be.

It wasn’t necessarily a strong cologne, but it was noticeable if one stood close enough to him, which Greyback had done during that last summer at Malfoy Manor far too many times than Draco wanted to remember. And a werewolf’s sense of smell was much stronger than a regular human’s.

“Makes me remember a sweet tender little thing,” Greyback went on, an undercurrent of lust in his raspy voice. “I had hoped to gain it as a prize, for all of my hard work for the Dark Lord.” He snorted then, lips drawing back in a snarl. “I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Well whatever it was,” the second speaker said impatiently, “It’s got to be gone now right? Come on, let’s go, I’m getting tired of carrying these soddin’ Mudbloods about.”

It took far too long for Draco’s liking; but finally Greyback turned away and walked over to the waiting men. Further conversation became too muffled as he slung the figure of an older man over his shoulder with ease, and then the group disappeared further into the treeline, until they were swallowed by the shadows.

Draco’s breath came out again as a wheeze, and his knees gave out momentarily, causing him to hit the ground with a hard thud. Hermione was shaking, but she took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Come back to the tent,” she whispered. “We’re okay. Come inside, Draco, they didn’t find us.”

“He smelled my cologne,” he said blankly.

“But he didn’t know what it was,” Hermione assured him. “I mean--he didn’t realize it meant that  _ you _ were here. Draco, please…you’re going to be alright. Come back to the tent. They’re leaving, and we’ll be gone from here by dawn, I promise.”

He could not feel his legs, but Draco was aware that he was moving; Hermione’s hand felt unnaturally warm around his own, and distantly Draco’s rational mind was aware that that meant all the blood was rushing to his core, on its way to his legs, enabling the fight-or-flight reflex. But he could not feel the heat of it moving to his lower extremities, and he didn’t think he could have run even if they’d had no other choice.

After all, he’d run from Greyback over and over and over again over the months that he was trapped in the Manor. And the bastard just continued to find him again, to corner him, to leave Draco shaking and terrified that he wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever.

“Draco. Please, Draco, come back to me--can you hear me?”

His vision was swimming, but gradually Draco registered that he was sitting on the edge of his--their--bunk. Hermione was crouched in front of him, face tight with worry--but her eyes were also alight with so much tenderness. She was holding both of his hands in hers, rubbing gently to restore his circulation.

“There you are,” she murmured. “Breathe in for me, Draco, please? You’re still as death.”

Draco had thought he was breathing. Focusing on the warmth of her fingers, he felt something crack inside of his chest as if he were breaking free from a concrete shell; dragging in a deep breath, his vision finally cleared, and Draco found himself close to panting all of a sudden. His cheeks were damp.

Hermione reached up, keeping a strong grip on one of his hands while using the other to brush away the tears that Draco hadn’t realized had begun to fall.

“Sorry.” Draco’s voice was much more hoarse than he had expected, and he shuddered as he took more breaths, trying to steady himself. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m okay, I promise.” He smiled shakily, knowing the expression was blatantly forced. “Just--didn’t expect to encounter him out here.”

Her eyes were far too shrewd, seeing through his attempt to compose himself, and Draco knew it wasn’t worth the effort to try and convince her that he wasn’t shaken to his core.

“You didn’t tell us every bad thing that happened, the summers you had to be back at the Manor. Did you?” she asked quietly, and Draco sagged a little, shifting back until he could sit fully on the bunk. He put his back to the tent wall, which was somehow secure enough to support him as he leaned on one elbow, watching her as she studied him.

“No,” Draco finally confessed, struggling not to let himself drop his gaze from hers. “But it’s not as bad as you’re fearing. I promise.”

“Just nearly as bad?” Hermione rose, following him into the bed. She curled on her side facing him, and somehow the intimate space between their faces made it feel oddly easier to let her push past this final barrier, into the dark things that Draco never let himself drift back into dwelling on. “Did he...”

“Tried. Dropped constant innuendos, mocked me nonstop. He never actually managed it.” Draco grimaced, though there was a touch of bitter amusement in the expression. “For one, the house was always full of people. And while a lot can be said against Death Eaters...surprisingly, their presence usually worked to keep even someone as savage as Greyback in line. The last summer I was there, he actually lived outside in the gardens. Didn’t like how, I don’t know,  _ human _ it was, being inside.”

Then he did smile, though it was not amused. “And of course...if he actually had done even half of what he threatened, it’s fair to say that my father would have had his head on our wall like the animal that he is. Lucius Malfoy is nothing if not protective of his family.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered. Draco looked back at her, and found that she’d moved nearer to him; their faces were close enough together that it was almost hard to see her features clearly. “I know it was your choice to not disclose that--but thank you for trusting me now.”

“I always trusted you,” Draco pointed out, smiling faintly. “But some things are harder than others to talk about, even to the person you’re in love with. You know that.”

Her cheeks immediately turned his favorite shade of pink, and Draco grinned, reaching out to tuck a coil of hair behind her ear. “Oh, come on, Granger, we passed the dramatic ‘ _ I love you’ _ moment,” he reminded her teasingly. “Surely it’s not shocking anymore.”

“‘Love’ and ‘in love’ are phrasings with different kinds of weight,” she retorted, poking his chest. Draco caught her hand, making her laugh as he tugged until she folded forward, burying her face against him while she continued giggling. “But I’m glad you clarified that you mean it both ways.”

His voice softened, and Draco caught her chin gently, angling her face up so that she’d see the depth of his sincerity. “You knew I did.” Draco searched her eyes, his breath catching a little at the raw adoration reflected in her gaze, mirroring his own. “I’m so in love with you, Hermione Granger. I’d be completely lost without you.”

She inhaled, swallowing, and her eyes dropped to his lips for a heartbeat before she blushed more deeply. Draco cocked one eyebrow, smirking at her as his thumb stroked over the heat in her cheeks. “What are you thinking now, hm?”

Hermione licked her lips, and an electric shock leapt down Draco’s spine as the small motion made the tip of her tongue flick against the side of his thumb. “You’re the Legilimens,” she pointed out, and now there was the teasing edge of challenge that Draco had used to love so much in her voice; it was like being side-by-side in a classroom again, daring each other to be better at any given assignment or task and taking absolute pleasure in the competition, regardless of who actually won academically. “You tell me what I’m thinking.”

“Hopefully the same thing I am,” Draco replied huskily, and he shifted to lie down flat, tugging her after him. Hermione sucked in a breath, her eyes darkening as she came willingly, settling atop him and finding his mouth with hers.

* * *

Draco had become more than used to waking up with Hermione draped over him. But it was an entirely novel, mind-blowing, exhilarating experience to regain consciousness and then remember what they’d shared throughout the night; when he looked to the side, Draco was greeted by the absolutely breathtaking vision of Hermione’s bare skin on display, her body loose and relaxed against his and a coy, pleased smile curling up the corners of her lips.

The tent was delightfully warm and the quilt had slipped lower as they’d slept, so most of her bare back was exposed, illuminated by the soft flickering light of their little fire, and by the pale dawn sunlight filtering through the canvas roof.

Rolling onto his side, Draco reached out to caress the soft expanse of her skin, watching her face as she stirred a little at the touch before resettling back into sleep.

Eventually nature called, and Draco made himself slip grudgingly from their bed, tucking the quilt carefully back around her so she wouldn’t get chilled without him beside her. Slipping on his jeans and a sweater, Draco quietly started the new day, assembling a simple breakfast of berries and nuts--at least it was more flavorful than porridge rations--and brewing some tea, taking his little meal out front in order to eat without disturbing Hermione, and to monitor their surroundings to ensure that there was no urgent need to depart just yet.

Hogwarts drifted through his mind, and Draco wondered if exams had begun yet; he knew that they were drawing close to the winter holidays. They had already spotted Christmas trees twinkling from several sitting room windows, so Draco could only presume that it was late November, or early- to mid-December by now. The weather certainly was growing colder and colder, the deep of winter settling in fully. It was making camping gradually more difficult, because the earth was hard and frozen, and there was less and less food to be found without taking the risk of going into more populated areas.

The tent flap rustled, and Draco smiled as he looked up to find Hermione emerging beside him. She was wearing lounge pants--and one of his shirts, the sight of which made him suck in a breath as pleasure filtered through him.

It was a heady feeling, possessive and loving and hungry, and it made him feel mildly light-headed as she sank down to sit beside him with her own mug of tea, a knowing smirk on her lips. “Figured you wouldn’t mind,” she murmured, and Draco snorted, offering her the dish of fruits and nuts.

“No, I certainly do not.” Noticing something under her arm, he raised his eyebrows; Hermione shifted, trading the book she was carrying--Dumbledore’s old copy of  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard-- _ for the plate of food.

He could not imagine how much more they could get out of the book; it was not, after all, very long. But evidently she was still deciphering something in it, because Draco had noticed that she’d keep  _ Spellman’s Syllabary _ open on the arm of the chair as she poured over Beedle’s tales in the evenings, when they weren’t talking.

“I need your thoughts on something,” Hermione explained. She nibbled on a berry, reaching over to open the book to the start of a story and pointing at the top of the page. “Look at that symbol.”

Above what Draco recognized was the title of the story--he hadn’t thought about his Ancient Runes studies in a long while, so the words didn’t immediately translate themselves in his mind--there was a picture of what looked like a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line. “That doesn’t look like...”

“I know--it isn’t a rune that I know, and it’s not in the syllabary, either. All along I thought it was a picture of an eye, but I don’t think it is anymore. It’s been inked-in, look, somebody’s drawn it there, it isn’t really part of the book. Think, have you ever seen it before?”

“No, I...No, wait a moment.” Draco looked closer, squinting at the hand-drawn lines. “Isn’t it the same symbol Luna’s dad was wearing round his neck?”

“Yes, that’s what I thought too!”

“Then it’s Grindelwald’s mark,” Draco said, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

Hermione stared at him. “What? What do you mean?”

“Krum told me...” He recounted the story that Viktor Krum had told him at the wedding, about the Dark Wizard and his mark being left on the walls of Durmstrang.

Hermione looked astonished. “Grindelwald’s mark...” She looked from Draco back to the weird symbol and back again. “I’ve never heard of Grindelwald having a mark. There’s no mention of it in anything I’ve ever read about him.”

“Well, again--Krum said that the symbol was carved on a wall at Durmstrang, and he believed that Grindelwald put it there. That doesn’t strictly guarantee that that’s the case. He’s the only person I heard that story from, and I’d never seen the symbol before seeing Lovegood wearing it at the wedding.”

Hermione leaned back against the tent front, frowning. “That’s very odd. If it’s a symbol of Dark Magic, what’s it doing in a book of children’s stories?”

“Yes, that is odd,” Draco agreed. “Though to be fair, as you said, it isn’t originally part of the book--so the question would really be whether or not it was Dumbledore who drew it in, or someone before him.” Draco watched her examine the page further, a thought returning to his mind that he hadn’t contemplated in several days. “Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking...and I do think that we do need to go to Godric’s Hollow.” Draco paused, braced for her to dismiss it again--the iconic little town mattered to them, and their side, but it wasn’t somewhere vital to Voldemort, as they’d argued themselves blue in the face repeatedly.

She looked up at him, but her eyes were unfocused, and he was sure she was still thinking about the mysterious mark on the book. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ve been wondering that too. I really think we’ll have to.”

Draco was startled. “Wait--really?” he asked. ‘“After all the times we said there’d be no point?”

“Yes, well, you’re bringing it up again--and I find myself agreeing, I think that we should. I mean, I can’t think of anywhere else the sword could be. It’ll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems that it's there.”

Draco wasn't sure if he’d concretely let himself theorize that far, but it sounded so sensible when Hermione said it out loud. He supposed that had been the driving factor behind his feeling that they needed to go; it was still utterly illogical to imagine a Horcrux was there, but Godric’s hollow  _ was _ important to the history--of Harry Potter, of the war against Voldemort, and of Dumbledore’s own family and life’s journey.

“It’s roundabout, but it seems like less and less of a stretch...all the time he spent with you, Dumbledore must have known you’d eventually want to visit it if only for its sentimental significance. And I mean, Godric’s Hollow is Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace...that’s very on-the-nose, but not totally ludicrous. There’s a bit about the village in  _ A History of Magic, _ wait...”

She opened the beaded bag and rummaged for a while, finally extracting her copy of their oldest school textbook, which she thumbed through until finding the page she wanted. “‘Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages of Tinworth in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric’s Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.’“

Closing the book again, she set it aside with  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _ on top of it. “Godric’s Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor’s sword; I imagine that Dumbledore would have trusted that we’d make the connection. And if he--Riddle, I mean--doesn’t know that the sword can destroy his Horcruxes, then he wouldn’t be watching for any such links to be made....I hope.”

“Makes sense to me,” Draco affirmed, finishing off the rather stale nuts on their plate. “And do you remember what Muriel said?” he added.

“Who?”

“You know--” He hesitated: Draco did not want to say Ron’s name aloud, not after all of this time. “Ginny’s great-aunt. At the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles.”

“Oh,” Hermione said lightly. “Yes--what about her?”

It was a sticky moment: Draco knew that she had sensed Ron’s name in the offing. He pushed on: “She said Bathilda Bagshot still lives in Godric’s Hollow.”

“Bathilda Bagshot,” Hermione mused, running her index finger over Bathilda’s embossed name on the faded front cover of  _ A History of Magic _ . “Well, I suppose— _ oh! _ ” She suddenly gasped so dramatically that Draco’s insides turned over; he drew his wand, tensed to leap to his feet, but there was nothing amiss in the woods around them.

“What?” he asked, startled but relieved. “What was that for? I thought you’d seen a Death Eater running at us through the trees, at least—”

“Draco, what if Bathilda’s got the sword? What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her until we came for it?”

Draco considered this possibility seriously. Bathilda would be an extremely old woman by now, and according to Muriel, she was “gaga.” Was it likely that Dumbledore would have hidden the sword of Gryffindor with her? If so, Draco felt that Dumbledore had left a great deal to chance: Dumbledore had never revealed that he had replaced the sword with a fake, nor had he so much as mentioned a friendship with Bathilda.

“He might have done,” he said at last, shrugging. “Worth going to see her for anything she has to say, at any rate. So, are we going to go to Godric’s Hollow?”

“Yes. But we’ll need to do it carefully--I know Riddle’s not going to be too concerned with the town, but there’s no sense in taking mindless risks.” She was sitting up now, and Draco could tell that the prospect of having a plan again had lifted her mood as much as his. “We’ll need to practice Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible too...you’ll need to use your glamour charm...”

Draco let her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever there was a pause; for the first time since they had discovered that the sword in Gringotts was a fake, he felt excited.

It was the first time that they had a real destination and solid purpose, on par with infiltrating the Ministry to get the locket from Umbridge. And Godric’s Hollow was important, not just for the possibility--however thin--that they’d find the sword that they so desperately needed there, but because of its role in the history of the war that they were trapped in.

He’d never gone--why would he have with his father being who he was?--but Draco knew that there were going to be testaments to the Potters in Godric’s Hollow. Perhaps a monument, to James and Lily certainly...and very likely to Harry, as the years passed following his death. Draco swallowed hard, realizing that there was a good chance that he and Hermione might see the graves of the fallen Gryffindor’s parents when they went.

They changed campsites, making their way carefully and slowly towards Godric’s Hollow across the countryside. Draco made them a quick supper of eggs, and then they went to bed together, intending to make their trip the next day.

The relief of having a plan was definitely energizing; and that paired with the excitement and sensual uncertainty of their new, more physical relationship meant that sleep took a long time to come to them--but that wasn’t terribly disappointing, considering the alternative. When Draco did drift off, he was more than happy, feeling Hermione’s warm skin pressing against his own, no barriers left between them.

The next day they focused on finding at least one real, substantial meal, because doing anything more high-pressure than wandering and trying to find food would need actual strength. 

Finally they Apparated to the village under cover of darkness; the beaded bag containing all of their possessions--apart from the Horcrux, which Draco was wearing around his neck--was tucked into an inside pocket of Hermione’s buttoned-up coat. Draco donned his glamour charm, and lowered the Invisibility Cloak over them; then they turned into the suffocating darkness once again.

They landed hand-in-hand in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, in which the night’s first stars were already glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on either side of the narrow road, Christmas decorations twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead of them, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the center of the village.

Draco removed the Cloak and stowed it under his jacket, and together they made their way forward unhampered, the icy air stinging their faces as they passed more cottages. His eyes roamed over the front doors, their snow-burdened roofs, and their front porches, wondering whether any of these residents remembered having the Potters as neighbors, or if the little family was gone from the village memory after so many years.

Then the little lane along which they were walking curved to the left, revealing a small square at the heart of the village. Strung all around with colored lights, there was what looked like a war memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There were several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel-bright on the far side of the square.

The snow here had become impacted: It was hard and slippery where people had trodden on it all day. Villagers were criss-crossing in front of them, their figures briefly illuminated by streetlamps. They heard a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door opened and closed; then they heard a carol start up inside the little church.

“Oh...Draco. I think it’s Christmas Eve!” Hermione whispered, her eyes on the little church as the singing continued.

“Is it?” He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a newspaper for weeks.

“I’m sure of it,” Hermione confirmed, and then her eyes drifted beyond the church. “I suppose...I suppose they’ll be in there, won’t they? Harry’s mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind the building.”

Draco paused, taking a deep breath as he followed her gaze to where there were, indeed, smudged shadows of gravestones in various sizes and shapes behind the glowing church. A deep sense of loss settled in his heart, and for a moment, Draco couldn’t speak.

Hermione seemed to know how he was feeling, because she reached for his hand and took the lead for the first time, pulling him forward. Halfway across the square, however, she stopped in surprise. “Draco, look!”

She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there was now a statue of three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps. Draco drew closer slowly, still clutching Hermione’s hand firmly as they gazed together up into the Potters’ stone faces.

He had never imagined that there would be a statue to the little family. How strange it was to see them represented in carving, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead and parents who did not know how soon they would be taken away from their precious son.

“C’mon,” Draco said softly, when he had looked his fill, and they turned again toward the church. As they crossed the road, he glanced over his shoulder; the statue had turned back into the war memorial.

The singing grew louder as they approached the church. It made Draco’s throat constrict, it reminded him so forcefully of Hogwarts--of Peeves bellowing rude versions of carols from inside suits of armor; of the Great Hall’s twelve Christmas trees; of Dumbledore wearing a bonnet he had won in a cracker; of Ron and his siblings in hand-knitted sweaters that Molly mailed to them every year...

There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. Hermione pushed it open as quietly as possible and they edged through it. In any other context, Draco might have made a joke about the humor of such a name for a structure that was just meant to prevent livestock from getting into the cemetery; but the moment felt too solemn to muster even a smile over the thought.

On either side of the slippery path to the church’s back doors, the snow lay deep and untouched. They moved along through the snow, carving deep trenches behind them as they walked around the building, keeping to the shadows each time that they passed under the brilliant windows. Behind the church, row upon row of snowy tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow.

Keeping his hand closed tightly on the wand in his jacket pocket, Draco moved toward the nearest grave. “Look at this; it’s an Abbott, could be some long-lost relation of Hannah’s,” he mused, remembering the pleasant blonde Hufflepuff who had worked so diligently during their DA lessons.

“Maybe someday we can ask her if she’s ever had family in this area,” Hermione agreed, smiling faintly. “Merlin, I miss those days.”

They waded deeper and deeper into the graveyard, stooping to peer at the words on old headstones, every now and then squinting into the surrounding darkness to make absolutely sure that they were not being watched.

“Hey...look at this.” Draco paused, leaning closer to examine the grave that Hermione had paused at. It was extremely old, weathered so that Draco could hardly make out the name; it certainly had to be one of the oldest markers in the yard. Hermione pointed at the symbol beneath it. “Isn’t that the mark in the book? That Lovegood was wearing?”

He peered at the place she indicated: the stone was so worn that it was hard to make out what was engraved there, though there did seem to be a triangular mark beneath the nearly illegible name. “Yes...it looks like it could be. Hard to tell.”

Hermione lit her wand and pointed it at the name on the headstone. “It says Ig—Ignotus, I think....”

Draco shrugged, and continued on his way with Hermione following shortly behind. Every now and then he recognized a surname that, like Abbott, he had met at Hogwarts. Sometimes there were several generations of the same Wizarding family represented in the graveyard: Draco could tell from the dates that the lines had either died out, or the current members had moved away from Godric’s Hollow. Deeper and deeper amongst the graves he went, and every time he reached a new headstone he paused to check the name.

The darkness and the silence seemed to gradually become much deeper. Draco looked around, worried, thinking of dementors; then he realized that the carols had finished. The chatter and flurry of churchgoers had fading away as they made their way back into the square, and somebody inside the church had just turned off the lights.

“Oh my--Draco, over here!” Hermione was two rows of tombstones away; he had to wade back to her, the legs of his jeans slowly getting damp from the depth of the snow that they were battling through.

“Who is it?”

“Just look.” She pointed to the dark stone; Draco hunched down and saw, upon the frozen, lichen-spotted granite, the words  _ Kendra Dumbledore _ and, a short way below her dates of birth and death,  _ & Her Daughter Ariana. _ There was also a quotation:  _ Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. _

So Rita Skeeter and Muriel had gotten at least some of their facts right. The Dumbledore family had indeed lived here, and part of it had died here. Seeing the grave was worse than hearing about it. Draco pursed his lips, wondering if Dumbledore had ever visited this sad and lonely place throughout his adulthood. If not for his own mother and sister, perhaps for the Potters--or even just for Harry, in the final years of the older wizard’s life after the Boy Who Lived had been killed.

Rising again, he took Hermione’s hand and continued--and then Draco stopped, his heart plunging when he spotted a much newer stone plot. It was iced over, not immediately recent, but much more so than the Dumbledore women’s marker. The name upon it, however, was what prompted Draco to groan softly, and he pointed it out when Hermione looked at him worriedly.

_ Bathilda Bagshot _

_ 1873 -- 1997 _

_ Treasured Historian, Author, & Friend _

“Fuck,” Draco muttered succinctly, and Hermione’s shoulders sagged in wordless agreement. “Well, I guess he didn’t leave it with her.”

“That’s--this year,” Hermione said softly, reaching out to touch the carefully-carved numerals on the face of the stone. “She just died this year.” She sighed softly. “But I imagine you’re right--she’d have done something about it before passing, if he had. I’m sure of that...even if it was just...getting it to the Order.” She glanced around, face pinching. “I’d say we ought to search her house, but there’s really no way of knowing which it is. And it’d feel a little...skeevy, to do so.”

Draco smiled, the expression bittersweet. “Hearing you say ‘skeevy’ is bizarre. But...yes. I don’t think there’s any point. It was a long shot, anyway.”

He started moving first, walking into the next row and making his way along towards the farthest corner of the little graveyard, listening to Hermione’s footsteps crunching slowly along behind him. And then Draco’s scanning gaze fell on the names he’d been looking for the entire time, and he stopped there, hands buried in his pockets and mouth suddenly dry while he waited for Hermione to join him.

She inhaled sharply when she saw James and Lily’s names etched into the stone, faded with sixteen years of weather and lack of attention and maintenance. Beneath their names was the shared date-of-death, October 31, 1981; below that, like on Kendra and Ariana’s marker, there was a quotation.  _ The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. _

Hermione lifted her hand, waving her wand in a small circle, and Draco smiled as he watched a small, flowering Christmas wreath of roses--white and red and pink against gleaming green leaves--materialize and settle on top of the pale marble.

It occurred to him that he’d known exactly what he was really looking for by coming here, and had simply not dwelt too hard on the desire in case they never did make it to Godric’s Hollow. But here they stood, in front of the most appropriate and suitable spot possible--and it was as if Draco had asked to come here solely to do this, the sword be damned.

Draco crouched down carefully, and with the most care he’d used on anything in his life besides touching Hermione, he thawed away the ice and snow on the headstone. Then, beneath the quotation that was there for James and Lily, Draco worked slowly, centimeter by centimeter, to add a further inscription at the base of the marker.

Above him, he heard Hermione breathe in and then sniffle a little as she watched him so carefully place the words.

_ Harry James Potter _

_ June 24, 1995 _

He did not rise yet; giving the fallen hero a place on his parents’ tombstone was just courtesy. Draco had a much more important tribute to offer, and he was infinitely grateful that at least Hermione could be at his side for this.

Doing another Warming Charm, Draco melted away the snow and ice covering the soil right at the center of the base of the stone, exposing a patch of grave-dirt. Were it spring or summer, he might have committed to the labor of using his hand to do this; as it was, Draco settled for using magic to work a small hole into the stop of the Potters’ grave, perhaps six inches deep. Then he reached into his innermost pocket, and drew out the reverently-wrapped pair of glasses that he had recovered from the mantle of Malfoy Manor at the end of the previous summer, and carried with him ever since.

Hermione let out a tiny noise, shocked and wounded. Draco looked up at her, finding her gazing at him with tears glittering in her soft hazel eyes. Of course; he’d never told her or Ron about that part, back at the very beginning.

“This is not the pair that you made for me,” he told her in a whisper. Hermione was deathly still, and he knew that she was all but holding her breath to hear his every word. “This...is Harry.”

He closed his eyes at the sound that she made then, because he knew that his heart could not take it if he saw the look on his girlfriend’s face at learning that. “In Little Hangleton that night, he disposed of Diggory, and then...did this. And brought them--him--back to Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione’s hand moved to his shoulder, wordless horror and sympathy and compassion, and Draco let it ground him. “They sat against the base of the Triwizard Tournament Cup on the mantle all that time.”

“And--and the pair that I Transfigured for you?”

“Took their place,” Draco replied, and he tenderly set Harry’s body--an impossibly strange thought, looking at the simple, standard pair of round black frames and glass resting in his palm--into the shallow space he had made, then covered them carefully over again with the dirt.

“I snuck back in there after the--after Dumbledore’s funeral, before coming home to the Burrow. Used the Cloak to go in there and trade them for Harry.” His throat began to tighten, but Draco cleared it, refusing to lose his voice over this. “I had to take him away from there. I wasn’t certain we’d ever come here, but I believed with all my soul that Harry needed to be brought home.”

“You were right.” Hermione sounded breathless, clearly struggling as well to keep her voice relatively steady. “Merlin...you were right. Thank you, Draco.”

He could only nod, a little jerkily.

Seemingly sensing his feelings once more, Hermione squeezed his shoulder again; then she let go, turning and walking away a short distance, leaving Draco alone before the Potter family’s stone. And now it was just that--the entire family. As it should be, if Harry was to be dead.

“Fourteen,” he whispered sorrowfully, staring at the shape of Harry’s name, carved in a rough facsimile of Draco’s handwriting. “You were only bloody  _ fourteen. _ ” Lifting one hand, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, rage and grief wrestling in his chest. “You deserved so much fucking  _ more. _ If I could give you better than this--than a--a silent burial with just two of us, in the dead of winter--”

_ Someday. _ Someday they’d return--they’d bring Ron, hell, Draco didn’t care what it took to reconcile. They’d all come back, and anyone else who wanted to could accompany them. There would be a proper celebration of Harry’s too-short life. The people who had known and loved him for far too little time would get to honor him as was right.

Draco reached out, running his gloved-fingertip over the letters he’d placed in the marble. “Only the good die young, eh, Potter?” he asked hoarsely. “That’s how the saying goes. And you weren’t just good...you were one of the best.” He thought about it for a long moment before sighing, the vapors in his breath coming out white and thicks in the late-night chill. “Old, stupid schoolboy pride. We could have good friends, you and me.” Draco shook his head. “Just one more thing that I will always regret.”

The cold was beginning to seep into his bones, now; there was nothing more he could do, not tonight. The resolve to return to and do more for Harry settled in his gut, as determined as when he’d taken Harry’s body from the cold halls of the Manor in order to bring him safely home.

For now, Draco stood, sliding his hands back into his pockets to warm his fingers. “I hope you have the peace you deserve, wherever you are now. Goodbye, Harry.”

When he found Hermione again, she had walked back out of the cemetery and well-past the war memorial, and was now gazing at one of the cottages. Joining her, Draco saw at once why; it was clearly the still-in-ruins home of the Potters.

The hedge had grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid had plucked Harry from the rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high grass, and carried away to his Muggle relatives aboard Sirius’ borrowed motorcycle. Most of the cottage was still standing, though by now it was entirely covered in dark ivy and snow; but the right side of the top floor had been blown apart.

That, Draco was sure, had to have been where Riddle’s curse had backfired. He and Hermione stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like those that flanked it, idyllic and lovely. “I wonder why nobody’s ever rebuilt it?” whispered Hermione.

“Maybe you can’t,” Draco mused. “Maybe it’s like the injuries from Dark Magic and you can’t repair the damage.” He frowned, his hand moving to rest on his chest as if he could feel the  _ Sectumsempra  _ scars of Crabbe’s bathroom attack through the layers of his clothing. It took willpower not to also put his fingers to his left arm, where fingernail scratches had healed over and over again, but the Dark Mark remained unblemished.

He reached out and grasped the snow-coated and thickly-rusted gate, not wishing to open it, but simply to hold some part of the house. “You’re not going to go inside?” Hermione protested in a whisper. “It looks unsafe, it might—oh! Draco, look!”

His touch on the gate seemed to have done the trick; a sign had risen out of the ground in front of them, up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some bizarre, fast-growing flower. In golden letters upon the wood it said:

_ On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. _

_ Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. _

_ This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument  _

_ to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that destroyed their family. _

Beneath that, there was another message etched in silver, post-dated to indicate that it had been added in 1996, just the year before.

_ Harry Potter later became a victim of the same Dark wizard who murdered his parents  _

_ within this house. The Potter home remains a monument to their family, _

_ tragically reunited in death. _   


All around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped as a baby. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into the wood, still others had left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’ worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things.  _ Rest in Peace, Harry _ .  _ Harry, I hope your friends continue your fight. Long Live Harry Potter. We will not forget you, Harry. We believe in what you stood for. _

“They shouldn’t have written on the sign!” Hermione muttered, indignant at this seeming violation of law and order.

But Draco just beamed at her, feeling irrationally happy with both the messages scrawled on the wood, and having Hermione at his side as he read them. “But it’s brilliant. I’m glad they did--I think it’s exactly what we need.”

Hermione looked at his face for a long moment; and then she smiled faintly. “Do you want to add to it?”

Draco chuckled, touching some of the most recent of the marks. “The honest answer is yes, absolutely. But everything that comes to mind is things that...well, I can’t say. I want to promise Harry that we’re doing this for him--that the fight isn’t over, that we’re carrying on for him. But that’s all a bit too direct.”

She considered that; and then, to Draco’s surprise, she smirked. “I know just the thing,” Hermione murmured. Leaning forward, she drew her wand and carefully began to carve.

Draco watched her work, not trying to determine what she was doing until she finished and revealed the finished product. When she did straighten again, looking quite smug, Draco took one look--and then he had to laugh, appreciating her sense of humor more than he ever had before.

“I assume you recognize it,” Hermione said, chuckling. “You did tell me you were raised knowing your stars.”

“Oh, I know my birthright constellation,” Draco affirmed, grinning back at her. “This is...that is perfect. You are perfect.” He took her hand, and Hermione promptly stepped in close, winding her arms around him in a snug, comforting hug. “Thank you, love.”

They were both quiet for a few minutes. Then Hermione raised her head from his chest, squinting past the sign at the ruins of the little cottage. “What is it?” Draco asked softly.

“Do you...do you think that maybe, this might be where Dumbledore would have come?” she asked softly. “I mean, he had to know that we’d consider Godric’s Hollow--I can’t believe that he wouldn’t assume that we’d try to come here. Not when--not when it’s this crucial to Harry, right?” She smiled, a little tremulously. “And he was so important to me and Ron--and now to you.” Ron’s name hung between them, but Draco felt as if it would have been worse if she hadn’t said it. This moment was about Harry, not them, or what had been said the night that Ron left. “Even if it was just me feeling an impulse to say goodbye to Harry, I’d bet you anything Dumbledore would know that we’d think of this. So maybe...he’d know this was the best place, given that he couldn’t leave us any direct clue or message?”

Draco chewed on his bottom lip, thinking that through. “I guess it’s not completely out of his usual style,” he said finally. “Enigmatic to a fault. And that logic’s sound, if tragic. Do you want to try?”

Hermione took a deep breath, bolstering herself, then nodded.

They made their way carefully into the little house, which clearly hadn’t been disturbed by any of the sign-marking well-wishers; Draco could tell that in all likelihood, it had not been touched since the night that James and Lily Potter had been killed. They checked all the intact rooms, first, and then cautiously made their way up the stairs; but there was no sign of the sword. Only dust-coated rubble, the rooms open and chilly due to lack of power and the torn-open walls at one end of the house; in the nursery, the crib still stood by the window, a tattered old teddy bear resting on the pillow from when one-year-old Harry had lived here.

Finally, they had to give up.

They Apparated back to the tent in the woods, and Hermione was understandably despondent after the disappointment of not finding the sword. “I’d really believed it’d be there,” she told him sadly, cleaning their dishes after a very simple supper of bread and preserves. They’d lucked onto an unlocked food cellar before leaving Godric’s Hollow, and been bold enough to take one jar--if only because Hermione had had a few pounds to leave behind.

“I know,” he’d said gently, reaching out his hand to her. “But we’re going to find it, love. I promise.”

Hermione met his eyes, and he watched the tension bleed out of her posture as she searched his face, and saw the things she trusted most written there. She smiled, taking his hand, and Draco led her to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When all chapters have been posted, we're going to extend this to be a "series" here on AO3 so that we can add time-stamps and post-story scenes and such.
> 
> One such one, for those of you who like you some smutty goodness, will be the extended, NOT fade-to-black version of the lovely little first-time love scene tucked in this delicious chapter. ;)


	35. Go Through the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'Let’s get rid of the damn thing, it’s been ruining our lives for months.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, this story would not exist without Hardy. No words for how I love her.

Their next campsite was in a rocky glade just outside of Tinworth, and Draco used the glamour and the Cloak to slip through a nearby market, stealthily leaving adequate payment behind for an armful of real groceries.

As he made his way back to the edge of the little town in order to Apparate back to the tent, he paused when he saw that the bookshop next to the grocers had a  _ Bestsellers _ stand out front. The garish green cover of Rita Skeeter’s stupid Dumbledore biography was impossible to miss, and Draco hesitated, eyeing it disdainfully.

He did not wish to read it--but at the same time, perhaps it was better to be more aware of how their opponents thought. Even if it was an opponent as trivial and ridiculous as Rita Skeeter. Sighing, Draco carefully snagged a copy under the Cloak, making sure that no one saw the theft. He wasn’t about to fund that bloody woman with a single pence of the limited funds that he and Hermione still had for food and supplies.

While he was on watch outside of the tent again, Draco finally took the Skeeter book out. He riffled through the pages, looking for photographs--and came across the one he sought almost at once, the young Dumbledore and his handsome companion, roaring with laughter at some long-forgotten joke. The caption read:  _ Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother’s death, with his friend Gellert Grindelwald. _

Draco stared at the last word for several long moments. Grindelwald.  _ His friend Grindelwald. _

It took some rifling further back to make sense of it all, but eventually Draco found himself at the start of a chapter entitled “The Greater Good.” Calling for Hermione, they got settled comfortably and started to read:

_ “‘Now approaching his eighteenth birthday, Dumbledore left Hogwarts in a blaze of glory—Head Boy, Prefect, Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot, Gold Medal-Winner for Ground-Breaking Contribution to the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo. Dumbledore intended, next, to take a Grand Tour with Elphias “Dogbreath” Doge, the dim-witted but devoted sidekick he had picked up at school. _

_ The two young men were staying at the Leaky Cauldron in London, preparing to depart for Greece the following morning, when an owl arrived bearing news of Dumbledore’s mother’s death. “Dogbreath” Doge, who refused to be interviewed for this book, has given the public his own sentimental version of what happened next. He represents Kendra’s death as a tragic blow, and Dumbledore’s decision to give up his expedition as an act of noble self-sacrifice. Certainly Dumbledore returned to Godric’s Hollow at once, supposedly to “care” for his younger brother and sister. But how much care did he actually give them? _

_ “He were a head case, that Aberforth,” says Enid Smeek, whose family lived on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow at that time. “Ran wild. ’Course, with his mum and dad gone you’d have felt sorry for him, only he kept chucking goat dung at my head. I don’t think Albus was fussed about him, I never saw them together, anyway.” _

_ So what was Albus doing, if not comforting his wild young brother? The answer, it seems, is ensuring the continued imprisonment of his sister. For, though her first jailer had died, there was no change in the pitiful condition of Ariana Dumbledore. Her very existence continued to be known only to those few outsiders who, like “Dogbreath” Doge, could be counted upon to believe in the story of her “ill health.” Another such easily satisfied friend of the family was Bathilda Bagshot, the celebrated magical historian who has lived in Godric’s Hollow for many years. Kendra, of course, had rebuffed Bathilda when she first attempted to welcome the family to the village. Several years later, however, the author sent an owl to Albus at Hogwarts, having been favorably impressed by his paper on transspecies transformation in Transfiguration Today. This initial contact led to an acquaintance with the entire Dumbledore family. _

_ At the time of Kendra’s death, Bathilda was the only person in Godric’s Hollow who was on speaking terms with Dumbledore’s mother. Unfortunately, the brilliance that Bathilda exhibited earlier in her life has now dimmed. _

_ “The fire’s lit, but the cauldron’s empty,” as Ivor Dillonsby put it to me, or, in Enid Smeek’s slightly earthier phrase, “She’s nutty as squirrel poo.” Nevertheless, a combination of tried-and-tested reporting techniques enabled me to extract enough nuggets of hard fact to string together the whole scandalous story. _

_ Like the rest of the Wizarding world, Bathilda puts Kendra’s premature death down to a backfiring charm, a story repeated by Albus and Aberforth in later years. Bathilda also parrots the family line on Ariana, calling her “frail” and “delicate.” On one subject, however, Bathilda is well worth the effort I put into procuring Veritaserum, for she, and she alone knows the full story of the best-kept secret of Albus Dumbledore’s life. _

_ Now revealed for the first time, it calls into question everything that his admirers believed of Dumbledore: his supposed hatred of the Dark Arts, his opposition to the oppression of Muggles, even his devotion to his own family. _

_ The very same summer that Dumbledore went home to Godric’s Hollow, now an orphan and head of the family, Bathilda Bagshot agreed to accept into her home her great-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald. The name of Grindelwald is justly famous: In a list of Most Dangerous Dark Wizards of All Time, he would miss out on the top spot only because You-Know-Who arrived, a generation later, to steal his crown. As Grindelwald never extended his campaign of terror to Britain, however, the details of his rise to power are not widely known here. Educated at Durmstrang, a school famous even then for its unfortunate tolerance of the Dark Arts, Grindelwald showed himself quite as precociously brilliant as Dumbledore. Rather than channel his abilities into the attainment of awards and prizes, however, Gellert Grindelwald devoted himself to other pursuits. At sixteen years old, even Durmstrang felt it could no longer turn a blind eye to the twisted experiments of Gellert Grindelwald, and he was expelled. Hitherto, all that has been known of Grindelwald’s next movements is that he “traveled abroad for some months.” It can now be revealed that Grindelwald chose to visit his great-aunt in Godric’s Hollow, and that there, intensely shocking though it will be for many to hear it, he struck up a close friendship with none other than Albus Dumbledore. _

_ “He seemed a charming boy to me,” babbles Bathilda, “whatever he became later. Naturally I introduced him to poor Albus, who was missing the company of lads his own age. The boys took to each other at once.” They certainly did. Bathilda shows me a letter, kept by her, that Albus Dumbledore sent Gellert Grindelwald in the dead of night. “Yes, even after they’d spent all day in discussion—both such brilliant young boys, they got on like a cauldron on fire—I’d sometimes hear an owl tapping at Gellert’s bedroom window, delivering a letter from Albus! An idea would have struck him, and he had to let Gellert know immediately!” _

_ And what ideas they were. Profoundly shocking though Albus Dumbledore’s fans will find it, here are the thoughts of their seventeen-year-old hero, as relayed to his new best friend. (A copy of the original letter may be seen on page 463.) _

Gellert— 

Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES’ OWN GOOD— this, I think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point, it will be the foundation stone upon which we build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met.

Albus

_ Astonished and appalled though his many admirers will be, this letter constitutes proof that Albus Dumbledore once dreamed of overthrowing the Statute of Secrecy and establishing Wizard rule over Muggles. What a blow for those who have always portrayed Dumbledore as the Muggleborns’ greatest champion! How hollow those speeches promoting Muggle rights seem in the light of this damning new evidence! How despicable does Albus Dumbledore appear, busy plotting his rise to power when he should have been mourning his mother and caring for his sister! _

_ No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on his crumbling pedestal will bleat that he did not, after all, put his plans into action, that he must have suffered a change of heart, that he came to his senses. However, the truth seems altogether more shocking. Barely two months into their great new friendship, Dumbledore and Grindelwald parted, never to see each other again until they met for their legendary duel (for more, see chapter 22). What caused this abrupt rupture? Had Dumbledore come to his senses? Had he told Grindelwald he wanted no more part in his plans? Alas, no. _

_ “It was poor little Ariana dying, I think, that did it,” says Bathilda. “It came as an awful shock. Gellert was there in the house when it happened, and he came back to my house all of a dither, told me he wanted to go home the next day. Terribly distressed, you know. So I arranged a Portkey and that was the last I saw of him. Albus was beside himself at Ariana’s death. It was so dreadful for those two brothers. They had lost everybody except each other. No wonder tempers ran a little high. Aberforth blamed Albus, you know, as people will under these dreadful circumstances. But Aberforth always talked a little madly, poor boy. All the same, breaking Albus’s nose at the funeral was not decent. It would have destroyed Kendra to see her sons fighting like that, across her daughter’s body. A shame Gellert could not have stayed for the funeral....He would have been a comfort to Albus, at least....” _

_ This dreadful coffin-side brawl, known only to those few who attended Ariana Dumbledore’s funeral, raises several questions. Why exactly did Aberforth Dumbledore blame Albus for his sister’s death? Was it, as “Batty” pretends, a mere effusion of grief? Or could there have been some more concrete reason for his fury? _

_ Grindelwald, expelled from Durmstrang for near-fatal attacks upon fellow students, fled the country hours after the girl’s death, and Albus (out of shame or fear?) never saw him again, not until forced to do so by the pleas of the Wizarding world. Neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald ever seems to have referred to this brief boyhood friendship in later life. However, there can be no doubt that Dumbledore delayed, for some five years of turmoil, fatalities, and disappearances, his attack upon Gellert Grindelwald. _

_ Was it lingering affection for the man or fear of exposure as his once best friend that caused Dumbledore to hesitate? Was it only reluctantly that Dumbledore set out to capture the man he was once so delighted he had met? And how did the mysterious Ariana die? Was she the in-advertent victim of some Dark rite? Did she stumble across something she ought not to have done, as the two young men sat practicing for their attempt at glory and domination? Is it possible that Ariana Dumbledore was the first person to die “for the greater good?” _

The chapter ended there, and for a good long few minutes, there was only silence, before Hermione gently pulled the book from his somewhat slack hands, looking at him in concern. “Draco?”

“...Well,” Draco said. “I can tell you one thing, Dumbledore and Grindelwald were more than ‘just close friends.’”

Hermione blinked, clearly not having expected something like that to have been said right after reading such a horrible chapter. “How can you tell?”

He snorted. “Take it from a guy who likes blokes as well as ladies, Hermione, I could tell. I’m close to Pansy but I never sent her letters in the middle of the night, and I never spoke to her with a romantic undertone, not once in my life. Dumbledore and Grindelwald were lovers, I can assure you of that right now.”

“Lovers…” She seemed to meditate on this for a few moments before giving a small nod. “Alright then. But everything else…The plan to rise and conquer Muggles, that catchphrase, ‘For the Greater Good?’ I’m…Well, I guess I never expected it from Dumbledore. It just doesn’t sound like the man we knew.”

“The man we thought we knew,” Draco commented, gazing out into the darkness as he tried to let his thoughts reach a sort of order. “But it’s a familiar story all the same.”

“How so?”

“Hermione, he sounds just like me.”

“You?” She cocked her head, brows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“A couple of brilliant boys in pureblooded families…I never had siblings, and I don’t know if he had as much money as I did growing up, but we both believed in ridiculous things concerning Muggles.” He gestured to the book. “And then tragedy struck, and we both had to get our heads on straight. His sister died under mysterious but traumatic circumstances. A boy I had a childish rivalry with died under traumatic circumstances. We had a decision to make, and we both made the right one."

“Dumbledore went on to be labeled as the biggest Muggle-lover in the world,” Hermione said, nodding. “And you joined the Order of the Phoenix to become a spy at great personal risk.”

“Dumbledore fought Grindelwald and he won,” Draco said. “I’m going to fight Riddle. And I’ll win. But unlike Grindelwald, I’m not leaving Riddle alive.”

Silence fell again, as the fire popped and hissed in front of them, the falling snow the only movement within the stillness of the forest. He knew that he had just said something incredibly heavy, but it was something they both understood, even if neither of them liked it, for their own separate reasons. Hermione didn’t want him to become a killer. Draco didn’t want to think about what would happen if he failed.

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Harry had survived,” Hermione said softly.

“Yeah,” Draco agreed quietly. “So do I. What do you reckon would have been different?”

“I want to believe that you still would have joined us,” Hermione confessed, looking at him with that soft tender smile she reserved for him and him alone. “I can’t imagine going through this without you. And maybe you and Harry would have buried the hatchet and become friends. You were both pretty alike in personality.”

He snorted. “Hardly. I just liked a challenge.”

“Of course you did.” She leaned against him for a few minutes, flipping through the book before she finally shut it with a sigh. “It’s getting late. I can take the next watch if you need some rest.”

“Alright.” He kissed her forehead then, before reluctantly detangling himself from her hold. “Wake me if anything happens.”

“You know I will.”

It had started snowing before Draco took over the watch at midnight. His dreams had been confused and disturbing--Nagini wove in and out of them, first through a gigantic, cracked ring, then through a wreath of Christmas roses. He woke repeatedly, panicky, convinced that somebody had called out to him in the distance, imagining that the wind whipping around the tent was footsteps or voices.

Finally he got up in the darkness and joined Hermione, who was huddled in the entrance to the tent reading  _ A History of Magic _ by the light of her wand. The snow was still falling thickly, and she greeted his suggestion of packing up early and moving on with relief.

“We’ll go somewhere more sheltered,” she agreed, shivering as she pulled on a sweatshirt over her pajamas. “I kept thinking I could hear people moving outside. I even thought I saw somebody once or twice.”

Draco paused in the process of pulling a sweater on, and he glanced at the silent, motionless Sneakoscope on the table. “I’m sure I imagined it,” Hermione said at once, but she still looked nervous. “The snow in the dark, it plays tricks on your eyes...but perhaps we ought to Disapparate under the Invisibility Cloak, just in case?”

Half an hour later--with the tent packed, the Horcrux around Draco’s neck, and Hermione clutching the beaded bag--they Disapparated. The usual tightness engulfed them; Draco’s feet parted company with the snowy ground, then slammed hard onto what felt like frozen earth covered with leaves. “Where are we?” he asked, peering around at a fresh mass of trees as Hermione opened the beaded bag and began tugging out tent poles.

“The Forest of Dean,” she said. “On the other side of the park from where we were before.”

Here, too, snow lay on the trees all around and it was bitterly cold, but at least they were protected from the wind. They spent most of the day inside the tent, huddled by their little stove fire and holding each other snugly for warmth.

After two nights of light sleep, Draco’s senses seemed more alert than usual. The feeling of being watched or followed intensified, and he found himself more protective than usual of their small shelter and the precious woman he guarded inside. Moving an old cushion into the tent mouth, he sat down, wearing all the sweaters he’d packed, but still shivering.

The darkness deepened with the passing hours until it was virtually impenetrable. Every tiny movement seemed magnified in the vastness of the forest. Draco knew that it must be full of living creatures, but he wished they would all remain still and silent so that he could separate their innocent scurryings and prowlings from noises that might proclaim other, far more sinister movements.

He could not throw off the feeling that something was different tonight. Several times he jerked upright, his neck aching because he had fallen asleep, slumped at an awkward angle against the side of the tent. The night reached such a depth of velvety blackness that he might have been suspended in limbo between Disapparition and Apparition.

He had just held up a hand in front of his face to see whether he could make out his fingers when it happened.

A bright silver light appeared right ahead of him, moving through the trees. Whatever the source, it was moving soundlessly. The light seemed simply to drift toward him. Draco jumped to his feet, his voice frozen in his throat, and he raised his wand as he screwed up his eyes. The light became blinding, the trees in front of it pitch-black in silhouette, and still the thing came closer...

And then the source of the light stepped out from behind an oak. It was a silver-white doe, moon-bright and dazzling, picking her way over the ground, still silent, and leaving no hoof-prints in the fine powdering of snow. She stepped toward him, her beautiful head with its wide, long-lashed eyes held high.

Draco stared at the creature, filled with wonder--not at her strangeness, but at her inexplicable familiarity. He felt that he had been waiting for her to come; but that he had forgotten, until this moment, that they had arranged to meet.

His impulse to shout for Hermione, which had been so strong seconds ago, was gone. He knew, he would have staked his life on it, that the doe had come for him, and him alone. They gazed at each other for several long moments...and then she turned and walked away.

“No,” he breathed, and his voice cracked slightly. “Wait!”

She continued to step deliberately through the trees, and soon her brightness was striped by their thick black trunks. For one trembling second, Draco hesitated.  _ It could be a trick, a lure, a trap. _

But instinct, overwhelming instinct, told him that this was not Dark Magic, and he set off in pursuit. Snow crunched beneath his feet, but the doe made no noise as she passed through the trees. Deeper and deeper into the forest she led him, and Draco walked quickly, sure that when she stopped, everything would make sense.

At last, she came to a halt. She turned her beautiful head toward him once more, and he broke into a run, his questions burning in him; but as he opened his lips to ask it, she vanished.

Though the darkness had swallowed her whole, her burnished image was still imprinted on his retinas; it obscured his vision, brightening when he lowered his eyelids, disorienting him. Only then did the fear come; her presence had meant safety, and he’d followed it blindly. “Lumos!” Draco whispered, and the wand-tip ignited.

The imprint of the doe faded away with every blink of his eyes as he stood there, listening to the sounds of the forest, to distant crackles of twigs, soft swishes of snow. Was he about to be attacked? Had she enticed him into an ambush? Was he imagining that somebody stood beyond the reach of the wandlight, watching him? He held the wand higher. Nobody ran out at him, no flash of green light burst from behind a tree.

A gleam of silver-white caught in the light of the wand, and Draco twisted to face it; but all he saw was a small, frozen pool, its cracked black surface glittering as he raised his wand higher to examine it. He moved forward rather cautiously and looked down. The ice reflected his distorted shadow and the beam of wandlight, but deep below the thick, misty gray carapace, something else gleamed.

His heart skipped into his mouth: Draco dropped to his knees at the pool’s edge and angled his wand so as to flood the bottom of the pool with as much light as possible. A glint of deep red...

The sword of Gryffindor was lying at the bottom of the forest pool.

Barely breathing, Draco stared down at it. How was this possible? How could it have come to be lying in a forest pool, this close to the place where they were camping? Had some unknown magic drawn Hermione to this spot, or was the doe, which he had taken to be a Patronus, some kind of guardian of the pool? Or had the sword been put into the pool after they had arrived, precisely because they were here? In which case, where was the person who had wanted to pass it to them?

Again he directed the wand at the surrounding trees and bushes, searching for a human outline, for the glint of an eye; but he could not see anyone there.

All the same, some sensible fear quieted his exhilaration as he returned his attention to the sword reposing upon the bottom of the frozen pool. He pointed the wand at the silvery shape and murmured, “Accio Sword.”

It did not stir.

Draco had not expected it to, any more than he’d thought the locket would come to him in Umbridges stupid, frilly office. If it had been that easy, the sword would have lain on the ground for him to pick up, not in the depths of a frozen pool.

Pacing around the ice in a tight circle, Draco thought hard, trying to come up with a solution to retrieve the sword from the pond. How had Harry even gotten his hands on it to fight a basilisk, of all things? A mere twelve year-old-boy, trying to save his best friend’s little sister, fighting against a Horcrux of Tom Riddle...how had he done it?

Ron had, at one point, mentioned the Sorting Hat, and Dumbledore’s parting words to Harry before that year’s celebratory feast:  _ Only a true Gryffindor could pull that out of the Hat. _

“But I’m  _ not  _ a Gryffindor,” Draco muttered out loud in frustration. “I’m a bloody  _ Slytherin.” _

But was he really, honestly? He was cunning, and ambitious, and he was creative in leaps and bounds. Draco fit the proper Slytherin motif, but as of the last several years, he was decidedly  _ not  _ acting like a Slytherin.

He’d risked his life, not for himself but for others, and he was showing to have a reckless, impulsive side to his personality that he rarely ever had before, not unless Harry had been involved. And it was because he spent so long with so many Gryffindors--including the two most distinctly Gryffindors to ever cross the threshold of Hogwarts. They had rubbed off on him; in a good way or a bad way, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Think,” he told himself. What set a Gryffindor truly apart from the rest?

Then, as if in an old memory, the voice of the Sorting Hat echoed in his mind;  _ daring, nerve and chivalry set Gryffindors apart. _

“Oh great,” he mumbled. “This is something that Harry  _ bloody _ Potter would do.” Looking up into the sky--from what he could see of it through the trees--he flipped a two fingered salute. “Appreciate what I do for you, Potter!”

With fumbling fingers Draco started to remove his many layers of clothing. Where “chivalry” entered into this, he thought ruefully, he was not entirely sure, unless it counted as chivalrous that he was not calling for Hermione to do it in his stead. An owl hooted somewhere as he stripped off, a familiar sound that made him think of his beloved companion Orion. He hadn’t seen the eagle owl since the night before Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and he wondered where he had gone. Surely, he had returned to Malfoy Manor…Or perhaps he had gone to Hogwarts, considering the time of the season? Would he have expected Draco to arrive at the castle? Merlin, he hoped Orion wasn’t feeling abandoned.

Shivering now, his teeth chattering horribly, he continued to strip off until at last he stood there in his underwear, barefoot in the snow. A few of his Housemates had once teased him, how his pale appearance had made him suited for an Ice King role.  _ Oh if only they could see me now,  _ Draco thought dryly, before he pointed his wand at the ice. “Diffindo.”

The ice cracked with a loud sound that reminded Draco of splintering wood. The surface of the pool broke, and chunks of dark ice rocked on the ruffled water, which looked black as soon as it was revealed in the moonlight. As far as Draco could tell, the pool itself wasn’t very deep, but he clearly had to submerge himself underneath the ice in order to grab the sword successfully. Who knew how long it had been here anyway, trapped in the mud?

Stepping to the pool’s edge, Draco set his still lit wand beside it, taking a few deep breaths in an effort to brace himself. He was cold now, he was going to become even colder in a few short seconds. Deciding that trying to delay himself wouldn’t do anyone good, he finally inhaled deep, and jumped into the frigid water with a quiet splashing sound, submerging himself completely.

At once Draco knew he must have made a mistake, because this was worse than being simply cold.

This was the coldest he had ever felt, worse even than the effect of dementors. Every pore in his body screamed in protest, all of his limbs locked up from the freezing temperatures, and his lungs nearly collapsed in on themselves in an effort to try and force him to return to the surface. But he stubbornly forced himself deeper, stretching his violently trembling arms to grope about in the darkness, until his fingers finally found the cool smooth metal of the sword’s blade.

That was when the Horcrux, having lain dormant for so long besides affecting their thoughts and emotions for months, finally reacted.

Like a creature that desperately wanted to live, it moved on its own. Draco felt the chain twisting about in surprise, before it shot straight backwards, and he jerked, hand reaching towards his neck to try and seize the chain--only to realize with a split second of dawning horror what it was trying to do. The Horcrux, somehow, knew it was near an object that would bring on it’s destruction, and it was fighting back in the only way it knew how--by strangling him underneath the water.

Draco kicked out wildly, trying to push himself back to the surface, but merely propelled himself into the rocky side of the pool. Thrashing, suffocating, he scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers unable to loosen it, and now little lights were popping inside his head, and he was going to drown, there was nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that closed around his chest were surely Death’s…

Choking and retching, soaking and colder than he had ever been in his life, he came to facedown in the snow. Somewhere close by, another person was panting and coughing and staggering around.  _ Hermione, _ he thought to himself, dazed and hopeful, surely it had been Hermione who had come to his rescue…And yet, Draco was sure she had been asleep in the tent when he wandered off to follow the doe Patronus. And he had never called for her.

“Are you _ mental?” _

Shock rippled through his system. Forcing his eyes open as he gasped for breath, hand flinging itself towards his throat to find the chain of the locket was gone, Draco stared up into the face of Ron Weasley, fully dressed but sopping wet, staring back down at him like he couldn’t believe he was looking at someone so stupid. In his hands, the sword of Gryffindor gleamed in the moonlight, and the Horcrux locket dangled from white fingers, the chain having been cut from Draco’s neck.

“Why the  _ hell,” _ Ron panted, holding up the Horcrux, which swung backward and forward on its shortened chain in some parody of hypnosis, “Didn’t you take this thing off before you dove?” 

Draco didn’t know how to answer; he barely felt like he could even speak. Pushing himself back up to his feet, his whole body shaking violently from the cold, he went back to where his clothes had remained, grabbing his wand along the way to add heating charms to his trousers, and then to every sweater he yanked on over his head, briefly chasing away the chill in his skin.

If he caught a cold from this, Hermione was going to kill him.

“W-what are you d-do-doing here?” he finally chattered, turning to face Ron directly where the redhead remained standing, as if being too close would have resulted in Draco trying to curse him.

“I was looking for you,” Ron said.

“D-did you cast that Patronus?” Draco asked, stuffing his arms momentarily under his armpits in an attempt to rewarm them up.

“What? No.” Ron looked momentarily baffled. “My Patronus is a Jack Russell Terrier, remember? I thought you might have cast it.”

“No,” Draco said. “My Patronus is a phoenix, however the hell  _ that  _ happened.”

A very faint smile took over Ron’s expression then. “Yeah,” he said. “I almost thought your Patronus would be a ferret or something.”

Draco rolled his eyes, before looking around, once again wondering who cast the Patronus. He had never seen a doe one before--or as nearly as beautiful as Hermione’s, with such a calm, steady presence. If Ron didn’t cast it...

“Anyway…” The hesitant sound of Ron’s voice caught his attention again, and Draco turned to face him, seeing how nervous Ron looked right now. “I’ve, um…I’ve come back. If…You know. You still want me.”

An almost unsteady silence fell between them, the reminder of his leaving and the fight they had had before he left ringing in both of their heads. Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, flicking up and down to take in the almost pitiful appearance the redhead was presenting, trying to ignore how pitiful he himself looked right about now. Water-logged and shivering wasn’t a good look on anyone. “Don’t have a problem with Slytherins anymore, do you?”

Ron’s neck turned dark with shame. “Not all of them,” he mumbled, his eyes becoming downcast for a few seconds before he seemed to remember what he was holding. “Oh yeah, I got it out,” he added, holding up the sword. “That’s why you jumped in, right?”

A few more seconds, and then Draco allowed himself to move, getting closer to Ron to finally look at the sword up close. Despite its age, its magical properties had kept it looking like brand-new, even cold and dripping ice water. The blade gleamed bright silver in the dim starlight, and the rubies encrusted on the sword were unmistakable.

It was, he had no doubt, the real thing. Though who had had it all this time, and how it ended up in the pool, would remain a mystery.

“Yeah, I was going after it.” He looked around one last time before sighing. “Someone led me to it using that doe Patronus. But now that we have it, we can destroy the locket once and for all.”

Both of them looked down at the Horcrux then. It dangled and swung on it’s chain, almost looking innocent; but it held a dark aura that was all too recognizable to Draco as being linked to Riddle. Like it was warping the gold and the ornate emeralds that made up the S carved into the center.

And then, without even realizing how he knew--but he did now--Draco sighed. “You’ll have to be the one to destroy it.”

“Wait, what?” Ron reared back in shock, eyes wide. “Draco, I can’t!”

“You’re the Gryffindor here, not me,” Draco pointed out. “Come on, where’s your sense of bravery?” Taking the locket from Ron’s hand, he moved back, looking around before he moved towards a large but flat stone, slapping the locket onto the surface with distaste. It twitched a few times, clearly unhappy, but he wasn’t all that interested in keeping it around any longer than he had to. The time had come; they had to get rid of it, once and for all.

“But why me?” Ron asked, trailing after him uncertainty. “I didn’t do anything special, I just got you and the sword out of the water.”

“Exactly.” Draco pointed at him. “You got it out. Not me. I think destroying this Horcrux is all on you, Weasel-Bee.”

He wasn’t being kind or generous; it was just the way it was. Only a true Gryffindor could get the sword from wherever it was at, and at his core, Draco wasn’t a Gryffindor. He was a Slytherin, he would bleed silver and green until the day he died. But if anyone was a true Gryffindor, it was Ron bloody Weasley, even if he currently looked as pale as death at the prospect of this task.

“Draco, I can’t,” he said shakily. “That thing affects me worse than it affected you and Hermione. It made me think stuff… Stuff I was already thinking, but it made everything worse, I don’t know how, I can’t explain it. And then I’d take it off and I’d get my head on straight again, and then I’d have to put the fucking thing back on…I can’t!”

“You _ can,” _ Draco countered, steeling his tone in order to project some confidence for Ron’s sake. “You must. You’ve just got the sword. I know it’s supposed to be you who uses it. Please, just get rid of it, Ron. And move fast--because whatever’s in there will put up a fight, like the locket trying to drown me just now.”

“How are you going to open it?” Ron asked, looking utterly terrified as he glanced at the locket on the stony ground.

“I’m going to ask it to open, using Parseltongue,” Draco replied. The answer came so readily to his lips that he thought that he had always known it deep down. It was as if understanding the nuances of his unexpected Parseltongue power came upon Draco as inherently and without warning as the skill itself. He looked at the serpentine S, inlaid with glittering green stones: It was easy to visualize it as a minuscule snake, curled upon the cold rock.

“No!” Ron said hoarsely. “No, don’t open it! I’m serious!”

“Why not?” Draco asked, a little more sharply. “Let’s get rid of the damn thing, it’s been ruining our lives for months—come  _ on, _ Ron.”

The sound of his name seemed to act like a stimulant. Ron swallowed, then, still breathing hard through his nose before he moved back toward the rock where the locket gleamed brightly against the grittier background. “Tell me when,” he croaked.

“On three,” Draco replied, looking back down at the locket. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the letter S; he imagined a serpent, even as he heard the contents of the locket rattling like a trapped cockroach.

It would have been easy to pity it, except that the cut around Draco’s neck still burned.

“One...two...three... _ ’open.’” _ The last word came as a hiss and a snarl, and the golden doors of the locket swung wide with a little click.

Behind both of the glass windows within blinked a living eye, dark and handsome as Tom Riddle’s eyes had been before he turned them scarlet and slit-pupiled. “Stab,” Draco said fiercely, holding the locket steady on the rock.  _ “Stab _ it, Ron!”

Ron raised the sword in his shaking hands: The point dangled over the frantically swiveling eyes, and Draco gripped the locket tightly, bracing himself, already imagining blood pouring from the empty windows and relief coming to them all.  _ Let us be free of this. _

Then a voice hissed from out of the Horcrux.

_ “I have seen your heart, and it is mine.” _

“Don’t listen to it!” Draco gasped harshly. “Stab it, Ron, come on!”

_ “I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible....” _

“Ron!” Draco shouted; his voice echoed off the surrounding trees, the sword point trembled, and Ron gazed down into Riddle’s eyes.

_ “Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter...least loved by those you call your friends...second best, always, always overshadowed... _

Smoke rose out of the two sides, twisting and spiraling into the air around and above them like too many live snakes for them to count. The dark coils twisted and contorted into two human figures--and Draco felt cold, raw horror wash through him as it forms sterile, white-skinned parodies of himself and Hermione, staring down at Ron with scornful eyes.

“Ron--don’t let it keep speaking,  _ end it--!” _ But he couldn’t be heard over the Horcrux. It used Draco’s face to speak, taunting Ron, deepening Draco’s horror.

“ _ Why come back? We were better without you, happier, glad you’d left...we laughed at your ignorance, your cowardice...” _

Hermione’s unnatural figure laughed as she stared down at Ron with crimson eyes, the sound too cold and cruel for her face. “ _ Who would ever look twice at you? You never mattered, not to me...even Harry Potter only endured you out of pity..." _

Draco struggled to lift his arm, trying desperately to get Ron’s attention. But the smoke was twisting between them, blowing him back, stopping him from reaching the redhead as the smoke-Draco speaks again. “ _ Your mother would have gladly traded you for him as a son...she’d likely even take me over you, talentless and cowardly as you are...” _

Smoke-Hermione slipped closer to smoke-Draco, sliding her arms around him. “ _ Who wouldn’t choose him...you already knew, it’s why you left...I chose him...we all find better, worthier people to love than you...” _

“Ron--Ron, please, fuck, stab it now!” Draco shouted, his throat aching terribly. He could feel the locket quivering in his grip and was scared of what was coming.

Ron raised the sword still higher, and as he did so, Riddle’s eyes gleamed scarlet. The ghostly figures of Draco and Hermione swirled within the blackness, before two more pale figures stepped out, and this time Draco couldn’t contain the yell of horror when he saw them taking shape; one of them was Pansy...and the other was Harry, eternally fourteen, with an expression that was far too cold and cruel than Draco had ever remembered seeing on him before.

Ron froze at the sight of the girl he loved, and his dead best friend, looking almost like he was going to pass out.

“ _ How dimwitted you are _ ,” Riddle-Pansy sneered,  _ “to think you stood a chance with me. I’m out of your reach now. I might find myself someone better than you, worthier than you.” _

“ _ You abandoned me out of jealousy _ ,” Riddle-Harry said, staring down at Ron with an expression of hatred on his face.  _ “When I needed you the most, you weren’t there. You mocked me alongside everyone else, and only came crawling back when I had earned everyone else’s approval. You’re nothing.” _

Ron seemed so frozen, so utterly terrified--and Draco could see, within the dim lighting, that it looked like he was crying, without even realizing that he was doing so. He couldn’t imagine what Ron was feeling, having a false image of his best friend taunting him with something that he no doubt blamed himself for already, but watching it felt like a knife being hammered into his chest.

He had to stop this. “Ron,  _ please!” _ he screamed at the top of his lungs. “They’re not real! That’s not who they really are! You can end this, I know you can! I trust you!”

Sprawled on the ground in front of him, Ron’s face filled with anguish. He scrambled upright again, and raised the sword high, his arms shaking. “Do it, Ron!” Draco called pleadingly; Ron looked toward him, and Draco froze when he thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes. “Ron—?”

The sword flashed as it plunged down through the air. Draco threw himself out of the way; there was a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Draco whirled around, slipping in the snow, grabbing his wand desperately and holding it ready to defend himself.

But there was nothing to fight. The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione, and Harry and Pansy, were all gone. There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock.

Slowly, Draco rose and walked over to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily; his eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue; they were also wet. Draco inhaled roughly, and stooped, picking up the broken Horcrux. Ron’s blow had pierced the glass in both windows. Riddle’s eyes were gone, and the stained silk lining of the locket was smoking slightly.

The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act.

The sword clanged as Ron dropped it onto the icy forest floor. He had sunk to his knees, his head dropping at once into his arms. He was shaking--but not from cold.

Draco crammed the broken locket into his pocket, then knelt down beside Ron, and placed a hand cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off.

“I didn’t...” Ron was clearly struggling to piece the words together. “I wasn’t opposed, you know. To you--you and ‘Mione. I’m not--I mean, I know it isn’t as if you need, whatever, my blessing, or--but I wasn’t--”

“It’s okay.” Draco sighed, reaching out to pull the sword across the disturbed snow between them. He felt as if at this rate, he did not want it out of sight or out of reach. “It was wrong for us to hide from you. At first we weren’t sure of what we were doing, and then, it just felt, I don’t know, easier not to have the conversation.”

He looked at Ron tiredly. “She cried for days after you left, just so you know. Probably more, but she didn’t always let me know. You’re her best friend in the world, Ron, and she needs you as much as I do.” He swallowed, trying to muster an exhausted smile. “The both of you, I mean, I--I need her, too. I need her  _ and _ you.”

Ron rolled his eyes a little, but Draco could tell from his expression that he had definitely needed to hear those words from the blonde. “You're perfectly capable, Draco.”

It was like something snapped between them, and the pain receded a little. Draco smiled more easily, breathing comfortably for the first time since before he’d dived into the bloody frozen pool. “Well, sure, I'm not useless--but I'd never have made it this far without you. Or Hermione.”

“That’s a bloody given.” They both chuckled faintly. Then Ron paused, looking sideways at Draco, who held his gaze--there was nothing to hide, not anymore. Ron’s lips twitched. “...you really do love her, don't you?”

The question sank into Draco’s gut the same way that the words themselves had when Hermione had uttered them. True, bone-deep \-- _ soul _ -deep-- and somewhere between never enough and too much to endure. Draco let his head tilt in a tired sort of nod, then met Ron’s eyes again, needing the redhead to see how deeply he meant this. Hermione was no orphan, not abandoned or alone in the world--but Ron’s approval  _ mattered. _

"Yeah. I think I always have."

There was a long silence between them. The cold didn’t seem so terrible, though Draco was well-aware that they needed to get to the tent soon. Neither of them had enough layers, and they were both still wet.

But there were still things he felt needed saying--and they needed to be here, now, between the two of them. “For the record, you were Harry's closest friend,” he stated, watching Ron’s face and catching the quirk of a smile that he couldn’t fight at hearing that. “He'd have gone to bat for you at any time. You were never second best to him--you were  _ the _ best. Anyone could see that. You were his brother, his right hand man.”

Ron looked torn between laughing and crying. “Really?”

Draco smirked. “Mate, you were the ‘thing he would dearly miss’ during the Triwizard Tournament. The task with the mermaids? Remember that? Out of anyone in the world, you were the one person he would miss the  _ most. _ You were probably the first family he ever had. You were everything to Harry.”

Pure emotion washed over Ron’s face, and Draco clasped his shoulder once more before he rose to let the ginger compose himself. He walked to where Ron’s enormous rucksack lay several yards away, discarded when Ron had run toward the pool to save Draco from drowning. He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to Ron, who finally rose--grabbing the sword, to Draco’s relief--and gave him a shaky not-smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I know I was a—a—” He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down upon him and claim him.

“A twat. But you’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” Draco pointed out to him lightly. “Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving my life.”

“That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron mumbled, and Draco snorted a laugh.

“Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was,” he told the redhead. “I’ve said so for years.”

Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged each other, Draco gripping the still-sopping back of Ron’s jacket.

“And now,” Draco muttered, as they broke apart, “all we’ve got to do is find the tent again.”

But as it turned out, it was not nearly as difficult as tracking the doe through unknown darkness had been. Though the walk through the black, icy forest following her had seemed lengthy, with Ron by his side the journey back seemed to take a surprisingly short time.

Draco could not wait to wake Hermione, and it was with quickening excitement that he entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him. It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest, the only illumination the bluebell flames still shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast asleep, curled up under the blankets in their bed, and she did not move until Draco had said her name several times. “Hermione!”

She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face. “What’s wrong? Draco? Are you alright?”

“It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine. I’m great. There’s someone here.” Draco grinned at her, stepping to one side so that the entrance of the tent would be clearly visible.

“What do you mean? Who— ?” She saw Ron, who stood there holding the sword and dripping onto the threadbare carpet. Draco backed up, slipping off Ron’s rucksack, and held his breath as he waited to see how she would respond to her best friend’s  _ very _ unexpected return.

Hermione slid out of her bunk and moved like a sleepwalker toward Ron, her eyes upon his pale face. She stopped right in front of him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide. Ron gave a weak, hopeful smile and half raised his arms; Draco’s lips tightened as he tried not to laugh, already knowing that the redhead was a fool to think that he’d get a hug after the past weeks.

Sure enough; Hermione launched herself forward and started punching every inch of him that she could reach.

“Ouch—ow—gerroff! What the—? Hermione— _ ow!” _

“You—complete—arse—Ronald—Weasley!” She punctuated every word with a fresh blow. Ron backed away, shielding his head as Hermione advanced. “You—crawl—back—here—after— weeks—and _ —weeks— _ oh, where’s my wand?”

Draco managed to grab hold of it off their shared little bedside ledge, and Hermione looked as though she was more than ready to wrestle it right out of his hands; he reacted instinctively. “Protego!”

The invisible shield erupted between Ron and Hermione, the force of it knocking her backward onto the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth, she leapt right up again. “Hermione!” Draco said firmly, trying to steady her. “Calm—”

“I will not calm down!” she snapped at him. Never before had he seen her quite this enraged, even at  _ him,  _ and that was saying something truly impressive. She looked quite demented. “Give me back my wand! Give it back to me!”

“Hermione, will you please—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she screeched. “Give me back my wand,  _ now!  _ And _ you!”  _ She spun again, pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It was like a malediction, and Draco did not blame Ron for retreating several steps. “I came running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back!”

“I know,” Ron said, his face instantly pinching from confused pleading to absolute remorse and self-loathing. “Hermione, I’m sorry, I’m really—”

“Oh, you’re sorry!” She laughed, a high-pitched, out-of-control sound; Ron looked to Draco for help, but Draco merely grimaced his helplessness. He really never had seen his girlfriend this furious, at him or at anyone else. This was the kind of wrath he’d only ever seen in Pansy, and he’d had to  _ really _ fuck up in order to push her to this point.

“You come back after  _ weeks, _ and you think it’s all going to be alright if you just say you’re sorry?” Hermione looked ready to strangle him.

“Well, what else can I say?” Ron shouted, and Draco exhaled, glad that Ron was fighting back. Even if he’d been in the wrong, Hermione’s current anger needed to come down a few notches in order for the three of them to move forward with any kind of peace.

“Oh, I don’t know!” Hermione yelled back, her sarcasm scathing. “Rack your brains, Ron, that should only take a couple of seconds—”

“Hermione,” Draco interjected, wanting to protest a little at that low blow. “He  _ did _ just save my—”

“I don’t care!” she snarled. “I don’t care what he’s done! Weeks and weeks, we could have been dead for all he knew—”

“I knew you weren’t dead!” Ron bellowed, drowning her voice for the first time, and approaching as close as he could with Draco’s Shield Charm still between them. “I knew! It’s all over the Prophet, and on the radio--people have been talking! Everyone knows that  _ someone’s _ taking on Harry’s fight.” He paused to take a breath, and Draco had to admit that he was more interested in hearing this than in preventing Hermione from hurting Ron--at least for a moment.

“There’s an entire new following,” Ron pressed on, because even Hermione was actually listening, though she was still tense and seemingly ready to lunge at him. “I don’t know exactly what started it--few different theories, I’ll show you--but they’re calling him the Dragon,  _ Draco,  _ I mean, it’s as if Harry was still here. There’s these rumors and mental stories, I knew I’d hear straight off if you were dead, you don’t know what it’s been like—”

“What it’s been like for you?” Hermione’s voice came back, now so shrill that Draco winced at hearing it. But then she stopped again, and Ron seized his opportunity.

“I wanted to come back the minute I’d Disapparated, but I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers, Hermione, and I couldn’t go anywhere!”

“A gang of what?” Draco asked, briefly diverted as Hermione threw herself down into a chair with her arms and legs crossed so tightly it seemed unlikely that she would unravel them for several years.

“Snatchers,” Ron repeated. “They’re everywhere—gangs, some Death Eaters and more just arseholes. Trying to earn gold by rounding up Muggleborns and blood traitors, there’s a reward from the Ministry for everyone captured. I was on my own and I looked like I might be school age; they got really excited, thought I was a Muggleborn who’d run off to go in hiding. I had to talk fast to get out of being dragged to the Ministry.”

“What did you say to them?” Draco asked, impressed at the prospect that Ron  _ had _ successfully gotten away from these people.

“Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could think of.”

“And they believed that?” If Draco remembered right--Ron and Hermione had been incensed when the man had been arrested--Shunpike was the awkward, gangly kid who worked on the Knight Bus. He certainly didn’t resemble the Weasleys, so if these Snatchers had known who he was, they’d have known Ron wasn’t him.

“They weren’t the brightest. One of them was definitely part troll, the smell off him....” Ron glanced at Hermione, clearly hopeful she might soften at this small instance of humor, but her expression remained stony above her tightly knotted limbs. “Anyway, they had a row about whether I was Stan or not. It was a bit pathetic to be honest, but there were still five of them and only one of me and they’d taken my wand. Then two of them got into a fight and while the others were distracted I managed to hit the one holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand, Disarmed the bloke holding mine, and Disapparated. I didn’t do it so well, Splinched myself again—”

Ron held up his right hand to show two missing fingernails; Hermione raised her eyebrows coldly, which—considering how she’d responded to Draco having a small cut on his forehead on day one of their travels--he had to say was a very cold reaction from her. “And I came out miles from where you were. By the time I got back to that bit of riverbank where we’d been...you’d gone.”

“Gosh, what a gripping story,” Hermione said in the lofty voice she adopted when wishing to wound. “You must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we’ve been tramping all over the country, miserable--we went to Godric’s Hollow--”

“What?” Ron said, looking sharply from her to Draco, but Hermione ignored him. Draco didn’t try to interrupt, because their visit to the little village wasn’t something to be shared while Hermione was still this angry. That had been too important.

“Imagine losing fingernails, though! That really puts our sufferings into perspective, doesn’t it?”

“Hermione,” Draco said quietly, trying to soothe the confrontation at last. “Ron just saved my life.”

She appeared not to have heard him, yet again. “One thing I would like to know, though,” she went on, fixing her eyes on a spot a foot over Ron’s head. “How exactly  _ did _ you find us tonight? That’s important. Once we know, we’ll be able to make sure we’re not visited by anyone else we  _ don’t _ want to see.”

Ron stared at her--and Draco knew that he was valiantly resisting rolling his eyes. Then Ron pulled a familiar small silver object from his jeans pocket. “This.”

Hermione had to look at Ron to see what he was showing them. “The Deluminator?” she asked, so surprised she forgot to look cold and fierce. “What--how--?”

“It doesn’t just turn the lights on and off,” Ron told her, clearly pleased she’d softened at least unintentionally. “I don’t know how it works or why it happened then and not any other time, because I’ve been wanting to come back ever since I left. But I was listening to the radio really early on Christmas morning and I heard...well.”

He blushed slightly, and Draco nearly smiled, suddenly thinking he might just have some bloody Seer blood in him. “I heard my name,” Ron went on, looking sheepish but still hopeful. “It was Pansy’s voice--but then I heard Draco say it, too, and then you.” He nodded at Hermione, who merely narrowed her eyes. “That’s all any of you said--my name. ‘Ron.’ And you said ...something about Harry....”

Draco remembered then: It had been the first time Ron’s name had been said aloud by either of them since the day he had left. He’d said Ron’s name in the cemetery, talking about why burying Harry had been so crucial to him.

He wondered if somehow, by some chance, Pansy had been speaking about Ron at the same time--or if Dumbledore’s clever invention had simply known whose voices to use.

“So I took it out,” Ron went on, looking down at the Deluminator. Draco swallowed, pushing aside the flash of pain he felt thinking about the Godric’s Hollow visit. “And it didn’t seem different or anything, but I was sure I’d heard you. So...I clicked it. And the light went out in my room, but another light appeared right outside the window."

Ron raised his empty hand and pointed in front of him, his eyes focused on something neither Draco nor Hermione could see. “It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing and bluish, like that light you get around a Portkey, you know? And I knew this was it. I grabbed my stuff and packed it, then I put on my rucksack and went out into the garden. The little ball of light was hovering there, waiting for me, and when I came out it bobbed along a bit and I followed it behind the shed and then it...well, it went inside me.”

“I’m sorry?” Draco said, startled, sure he had not heard that part correctly.

“It sort of floated toward me,” Ron reiterated, illustrating the movement with his free index finger. “Right to my chest, and then—it just went straight through. It was here.” He touched a point close to his heart, “I could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me I knew what I was supposed to do, I knew it would take me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated and came out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere....”

“We were there,” Draco realized. “We spent two nights there, and the second night I kept thinking I could hear someone moving around in the dark and calling out! Hermione thought so too!”

“Yeah, well, that would’ve been me,” Ron said, smiling sheepishly. “Your protective spells work, anyway, because I couldn’t see you and I couldn’t hear you. I was sure you were around, though, so in the end I got in my sleeping bag and waited for one of you to appear. I thought you’d have to show yourselves when you packed up the tent.”

“No, actually,” Hermione said, her tone much softer now. “We’ve been Disapparating under the Invisibility Cloak as an extra precaution. And we left really early that day, because, yes, we’d heard somebody blundering around.”

“Well, I stayed on that hill all day,” Ron went on. “I kept hoping you’d appear. But when it started to get dark I knew I must have missed you, so I clicked the Deluminator again, the blue light came out and went inside me, and I Disapparated and arrived here in these woods. I still couldn’t see you, so I just had to hope one of you would show yourselves in the end—and Draco did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously.”

“You saw the what?” Hermione asked sharply.

Together the boys explained what had happened just that night, with the silver doe and the sword in the pool and the drama of destroying it, Hermione frowned from one to the other of them, concentrating so hard that gradually she forgot to keep her limbs locked together. “But it must have been a Patronus!” she said. “Couldn’t you see who was casting it? Didn’t you see anyone? And it led you to the sword! I can’t believe this! Then what happened?”

Ron explained how he had watched Draco jump into the pool and had waited for him to resurface; how he had realized that something was wrong, dived in, and saved Draco, then returned to the water for the sword. He got as far as the opening of the locket, then hesitated.

Draco cut in, sparing his friend. “—and Ron stabbed it with the sword,” he finished firmly.

“And...and it went? Just like that?” she whispered, looking awestruck.

“Well, it—it fought back. And it screamed,” Draco said, with half a glance at Ron. “It certainly did not want to die. Here.”

He threw the shattered locket into her lap; gingerly Hermione picked it up and examined its punctured windows intently, her brow furrowed with interest and dislike for the artifact itself.

“...it wasn’t just like that, no.” Draco glanced at Ron in surprise when he spoke up, wondering if he really wanted to divulge that part. But the Gryffindor man was looking at his best friend steadily, and he waited until she looked back up from the broken locket before he continued. “Riddle, he...he tried to...no, not tried. He did. He tormented me, with all of my worst fears and insecurities. Threw them all in my face.”

Ron swallowed hard, and Hermione didn’t look away from him. “I was a coward. I abandoned you two, when I went...I said some cruel things. And I’m so sorry. I was so bloody petty about you and Draco being together and not just telling me outright.”

Hermione startled, inhaling sharply. Ron’s face slackened, softening with regret. “I hate that I did that to you, ‘Mione. I mean--you  _ know _ that I figured it out long before...before we ever left. And Merlin, I am so _ , so sorry _ for the things that I said before I ran off.”

Hermione’s bottom lip trembled, and she nodded, looking down again without another word. Deciding that it was now safe to do so, Draco removed the Shield Charm with a wave of Hermione’s wand, setting it back down as he turned back to Ron with a tired smile. “Thanks. For that.” Ron nodded, giving him a tremulous smile.

Abruptly Hermione got to her feet then, and Ron stilled, looking immediately apprehensive again. She put the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag; looked back and forth between the pair of them again; and then she walked away, climbing back into hers and Draco’s bed and settling down without another word.

“About the best you could hope for, I think,” Draco murmured, smiling a little despite himself. That was as close as he imagined a tired, stressed, and mildly relieved--they  _ had _ finally destroyed one Horcrux now, after all--Hermione could come to forgiving Ron quickly.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Could’ve been worse. Once she conjured a flock of very sharp-beaked birds and set them on me. Cut my arms up something bad.”

“I still haven’t ruled it out,” Hermione’s muffled voice emerged from beneath her nest of blankets; but Draco saw Ron smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out of his rucksack.

His eyes moved, just once, to Hermione’s now long-abandoned bed and then to where she slept, and then to Draco; the blonde raised his eyebrows, and Ron sighed nearly silently, shaking his head with a tiny smile as he started preparing for bed. Draco left him to it, making sure that the tent flat was secured and the fire safely banked before he padded over to slide into bed beside Hermione.

“If I hear anything suspicious,” Ron’s voice warned from across the tent.

“That’s what Muffliato is for,” Draco shot back, and he heard the man laugh quietly, and finally some of that restless energy in his chest seemed to settle again.


	36. Spinning Back Around Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Xenophilius raised his eyebrows, then reached beneath the collar of his nightshirt and drew the symbol in question out, still hanging on its delicate chain at his throat. “‘Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?’”

Draco did not expect Hermione’s anger to abate overnight, and he was therefore unsurprised that she communicated mostly through dirty looks and pointed silences the next morning, aside from briskly kissing him good morning. Ron responded to this treatment by maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor in her presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse.

In fact, when all three of them were together, Draco felt like he was the only non-mourner at a poorly attended funeral.

As soon as Ron was alone with Draco, however--they’d gone to collect water, and search the undergrowth for mushrooms--he became shamelessly cheery. Draco didn’t mind terribly, given his relief that Ron was back and that they had gotten past the ugly things they’d both said the night he left. And he knew that Hermione would eventually come ‘round; her rage was founded in hurt, and she would forgive her best friend with time.

Really, Draco rather thought that this must have been how she had felt throughout the Triwizard Tournament, back when Ron and Harry had been in a tiff that had filled Hogwarts with rumors and speculation about the pair of best friends.

“Someone helped us,” Ron kept saying with confidence. “Someone sent that doe. Someone’s on our side. One Horcrux down, mate!” Bolstered by the destruction of the locket, the boys set to debating the possible locations of the other Horcruxes; and even though they had discussed the matter so often before their separation, Draco felt optimistic, certain that more breakthroughs would succeed this first one.

Hermione’s sulking did not mar his buoyant spirits, though Draco was careful to be understanding and patient with her irritability towards Ron. The sudden upswing in their fortunes; the appearance of the mysterious doe; the recovery of Gryffindor’s sword; and above all, Ron’s return, all made Draco happy enough that it was quite difficult to maintain a straight face. Later that afternoon they left Hermione with her baleful silence once more, and while scouring the bare hedges for blackberries, they continued their ongoing exchange of news.

Draco finally got Ron caught up on the whole story of his and Hermione’s various wanderings, right up to the full story of what had happened at Godric’s Hollow--he’d have liked Hermione to be there for that, just as he had missed Ron’s presence when they’d been in the cemetery, but it was more important to fill Ron in promptly.

In turn, Ron updated Draco on everything he had discovered about the wider Wizarding world during his weeks away. “...and how did you find out about the Taboo?” he asked Draco, after explaining the increasingly desperate attempts of Muggleborns to evade the Ministry.

“The what?”

“You and Hermione have stopped saying You-Know-Who’s name!”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I did tell you--I prefer calling him Riddle, it’s all he deserves,” Draco said dismissively. “But I haven’t got a problem calling him Vo—”

_ “No!” _ Ron gasped, causing Draco to nearly stumble right into the hedge, and Hermione to scowl over at them from where she sat at the tent entrance with her books. “Sorry,” Ron said quickly, helping Draco back out of the brambles. “But the name’s been jinxed, Draco, that’s how they track people! Using his name breaks protective enchantments, it causes some kind of magical disturbance—it’s genuinely a miracle that they never cracked through the Fidelius Charm, anytime we said it when we were inside Grimmauld Place.”

“What--they can track people who use his  _ name? _ Just saying it out loud?”

“Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit, it makes sense,” Ron added, huffing. “It was only people who were serious about standing up to him, like Dumbledore or Harry or now you, who ever dared use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it, so anyone who says it is trackable. It makes for a quick-and-easy way to find Order members! They nearly got Kingsley—”

“You’re  _ kidding.” _

“Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him, Bill said, but he fought his way out. He’s on the run now, just like us.” That was a sobering thought; Draco had liked knowing that they had a good number of Order members inside the Ministry itself, looking out for one another and trying to minimize casualties from the Death Eaters’ malicious actions. The idea that even Kingsley could be driven into hiding was disturbing.

Then again, they were three bloody  _ teenagers,  _ living rough in the wild and avoiding civilization lest they end up arrested just for standing up to their enemy.

Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully with the end of his wand. “You don’t reckon Kingsley could have sent that doe?” he asked, looking hopeful at the prospect.

Draco smiled sadly. “No. His Patronus is a lynx, we saw it at the wedding, remember?”

“Oh yeah...” It would have been a lovely surprise. But Draco also knew that if Kingsley was on the run, then he would have just found a way to approach them directly to give them the sword. Whoever had sent that doe must have had valid reasons to need to remain concealed, even from the trio they had come to help.

They moved farther along the hedge, away from the tent and Hermione. “Draco...” Ron looked a bit sheepish, as if he already knew that his next words would sound strange. “You don’t reckon it could’ve been Dumbledore? Who sent the doe, I mean.” Ron was watching Draco out of the corners of his eyes. “After all, he had the real sword last, didn’t he?”

Draco did not laugh at Ron, because he understood too well the longing behind the question. The idea that Dumbledore had managed to come back to them, that he was watching over them, would have been inexpressibly comforting. But he shook his head. “Dumbledore’s dead,” he said softly. “I saw it happen, and we all saw the body. He’s definitely gone. Anyway, his Patronus was a phoenix, not a doe.”

It still baffled Draco, that his own Patronus was now the exact same as the late Headmaster’s. As Ron had said--and what Draco had secretly dreaded for ages--he had assumed that if he had conjured a corporeal Patronus for the first time, it would have probably ended up being a ferret. Or, even worse, a peacock, the same as his father’s. He hated those damned birds.

But a phoenix? Phoenix Patronuses were some of the most rare kinds of Patronus to conjure. He couldn’t help but wonder just what that meant, for him to have one.

“Patronuses can change, though, can’t they?” Ron asked. “Tonks’s changed, didn’t it?” When Draco looked at him curiously, Ron shrugged. “Ever since she and Remus became a formal couple. It was a jackrabbit before that--now it’s, I reckon a wolf, maybe a werewolf. It’s because of Remus, at any rate.”

Draco had to chuckle. “From jackrabbit to wolf. Definitely a Hufflepuff who fell in love with a werewolf. Merlin, she’s quite something.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Yes, but if Dumbledore was alive, why wouldn’t he show himself? Why wouldn’t he just hand us the sword?”

“Search me,” Ron said. “Same reason he didn’t give it to you while he was alive? Same reason he left me and Hermione his Deluminator and a book of kids’ stories?"

“Which is what?” Draco asked, turning to look Ron full in the face, eyebrows raised. “Still not sure I get the point, there. I mean, they’re certainly useful--and Hermione was touched to the core that he passed on some of his books to her--but you think there’s a deeper reason?”

“I dunno,” Ron hesitated. “Sometimes I’ve thought, when I’ve been a bit hacked off, that he was having a laugh or—or he just wanted to make it more difficult. But I don’t think so, not anymore. He knew what he was doing when he gave me the Deluminator, didn’t he? He—well.” Ron’s ears turned bright red and he became engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he prodded with his toe. “He must’ve known I’d run out on you. It brought me back, after all.”

“No,” Draco corrected him quietly. “He must’ve known you’d always want to come back.”

Ron looked grateful for that, but still awkward over leaving to begin with. Partly to change the subject, Draco went on, “Speaking of Dumbledore, have you heard what Skeeter wrote about him?”

“Oh yeah,” Ron said at once, grimacing. “People are talking about it quite a lot. ’Course, if things were different, it’d be huge news, Dumbledore have been pals with Grindelwald--but now it’s just something to laugh about for people who didn’t like Dumbledore, and a bit of a slap in the face for everyone who thought he was only ever a good bloke. I don’t know that it’s such a big deal, though. He was really young when they—”

“Our age,” Draco reminded him, and something in his face seemed to decide Ron against pursuing the subject. “Young, but not so young that he wasn’t responsible for his decisions.”

The saving grace that Draco could allow, on this point, was that Dumbledore had changed his path. He had broken away from Grindelwald, it appeared, just as Draco too had split from the way he’d been raised and the expectations that his family name put on his shoulders. He had willingly taken accountability for his choices.

All three of them returned to the welcome warmth of the tent when darkness fell, and Draco took the first watch of the night. Sitting at the entrance, he idly twirled his wand, realizing vaguely that since the locket had been destroyed--and therefore none of them had to wear it--he hadn’t found himself clawing at his arm since.

He just hoped that the next Horcrux they found wouldn’t put him right back in the habit. They needed their dittany for more important uses.

Hermione was lying on their bunk reading, while Ron, after many nervous glances up at her, had taken a small wooden wireless out of his rucksack and started to try and tune it. “There’s this one program,” he told Draco in a low voice. “It tells the news like it really is. All the others are on You-Know-Who’s side and are following the Ministry line, but this one...you wait till you hear it, it’s great. Only they can’t do it every night, they have to keep changing locations in case they’re raided, and you need a password to tune in....Trouble is, I missed the last one....”

He drummed lightly on the top of the radio with his wand, muttering random words under his breath. He also threw Hermione many covert glances, plainly fearing an angry outburst for his continued mumbling; but for all the notice she took of him he might not have been there. For ten minutes or so Ron tapped and muttered, Hermione turned the pages of her book, and Draco continued to gaze out into the darkness absent-mindedly, mostly just pleased to have all three of them back together.

Finally Hermione climbed out of the bunk, and Ron ceased his tapping at once. “If it’s annoying you, I’ll stop!” he told Hermione nervously.

Hermione did not deign to respond, but approached Draco. “We need to talk,” she said. He looked at the book still clutched in her hand. It was  _ The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. _

“What’s up?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. It flew through his mind that there could be mention of him in the book; after all, if she’d spoken to anyone at Hogwarts from the last several years, they’d automatically link Dumbledore to Harry...and plenty of people would associate Draco with Harry as well--negatively, of course.

Hermione’s answer, however, was completely unexpected. “I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood.”

He stared at her, trying to see the segue that she had followed. “Sorry?

“Xenophilius Lovegood. Luna’s father. I want to go and talk to him!”

“Uh...alright. Um—why?” Ron had stopped fiddling with the radio, too, and was listening curiously to their exchange while seemingly not breathing, as if to keep Hermione from trying to banish him from eavesdropping.

She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, and said, “It’s that mark, the mark in Beedle the Bard. Look at this!” She thrust  _ The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore _ under Draco’s unwilling eyes, and he saw a photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore had written Grindelwald, with Dumbledore’s familiar thin, slanting handwriting. He hated seeing absolute proof that Dumbledore really had written those words, that they had not been Rita’s invention.

“The signature,” Hermione pressed. “Look at the signature!”

He obeyed. For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about, but, looking more closely with the aid of his lit wand, he saw that Dumbledore had replaced the A of Albus with a tiny version of the same triangular mark inscribed upon  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard.  _

“It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?” Hermione asked. “I know Viktor told you that it was Grindelwald’s mark, but it was definitely on that old grave in Godric’s Hollow, and the dates on the headstone were long before Grindelwald came along. And now this! Well, we can’t ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means—I don’t even know whether Grindelwald’s still alive—but we can ask Mr. Lovegood. He was wearing the symbol at the wedding. I’m sure that this is important, Draco.”

Draco did not answer immediately. He looked into her intense, eager face and then out into the surrounding darkness, thinking it through.

After a long pause, he said, “I’m a bit afraid it’d just be another Godric’s Hollow. We talked ourselves into going there, and there was nothing more than—”

“But it keeps appearing, Draco!” If Hermione had known he was going to say  _ nothing more than the chance to lay Harry to rest, _ she didn’t draw attention to it. Draco had a feeling that Ron’s return had brought some fresh rawness to that memory for her, as well as the pain of having the ginger abandon them in the first place.

“Dumbledore left me  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard, _ how do you know we’re not supposed to find out about the sign?” she went on.

Draco frowned. “What if we’re just trying to convince ourselves Dumbledore left us secret signs and clues—”

“The Deluminator turned out to be pretty useful,” Ron piped up. “I think Hermione’s right, I think we ought to go and see Lovegood.”

Draco threw him a look, quite sure that Ron’s support of Hermione had little to do with a desire to know the meaning of the triangular rune. “It won’t be like Godric’s Hollow,” Ron added, a little more plaintive when he saw Draco’s annoyance. “Lovegood’s on our side, Draco, The Quibbler’s been for us all along. It keeps telling everyone that they’ve got to help the cause in any way that they can!”

“I’m sure this is important!” Hermione continued earnestly.

“But don’t you think if it was, Dumbledore would have told me about it before he died?” Draco asked, still torn. “He knew that was coming, he put so many other things into motion to make sure that help was offered after he was gone--wouldn’t he have told me about the symbol, or at least made some oddball reference to  _ The Tales _ so that I’d remember it later?”

“Maybe...maybe it was something you needed to find out for yourself,” Hermione said, with a faint air of clutching at straws.

“Yeah,” Ron said quickly. “That makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Hermione snapped at him, but her voice held far less heat than it had all day. “But I still think we ought to talk to Mr. Lovegood. A symbol that links Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Godric’s Hollow? Draco, I’m sure we ought to know about this!”

“I think we should vote on it,” Ron suggested. “Those in favor of going to see Lovegood—”

His hand flew into the air before Hermione’s. Her lips quivered suspiciously as she raised her own. “Outvoted, mate, sorry,” Ron said, clapping Draco on the back.

“Fine,” Draco sighed, half-amused and half-irritated. “Only, once we’ve seen Lovegood, let’s try and look for some more Horcruxes, shall we? Where do the Lovegoods live, anyway? Near the Burrow, wasn’t it, I remember Luna saying she walked over the day before the wedding...”

“Yeah, they’re not far from my place,” Ron confirmed. “I dunno exactly where, but Mum and Dad always point toward the hills whenever they mention them. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

When Hermione had returned to their bunk, Draco lowered his voice, giving Ron a pointed, hard look. “You only agreed to try and get back in her good books.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” Ron told him brightly. “And this is a bit of both. She can’t hate me forever. Cheer up, mate, it’s the Christmas holidays, Luna’ll be home!”

From the breezy hillside to which they Disapparated next morning, they had an excellent view of the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. From their high vantage point the village looked like a collection of toy houses in the great slanting shafts of sunlight stretching to earth in the breaks between clouds.

They stood for a minute or two looking toward the Burrow, their hands shadowing their eyes, but all they could make out were the high hedges and trees of the orchard, which afforded the crooked little house protection from Muggle eyes. Draco’s heart tugged at the sight of the familiar little home, wishing that they could retreat there; but he didn’t even know if the Weasleys were in, or if they’d gone somewhere else to hide.

“It’s weird, being this near, but not going to visit,” Ron mused.

“Well, it’s not like you haven’t just seen them. You were there for Christmas,” Hermione said, a touch coldly.

“I wasn’t at the Burrow!” Ron said, with an incredulous laugh. “Do you think I was going to go back there and tell them all I’d walked out on you? Yeah, Fred and George would’ve been great about it. And Ginny, she’d have been really understanding.”

“But where have you been, then?” Hermione asked, too surprised to still sound angry.

“Bill and Fleur’s new place. Shell Cottage. Bill’s always been decent to me. He—he wasn’t impressed when he heard what I’d done, but he didn’t go on about it. He knew I was really sorry. None of the rest of the family knew I was there. Bill told Mum he and Fleur weren’t going home for Christmas because they wanted to spend it alone. You know, first holiday after they were married. I don’t think Fleur minded. You know how much she hates Celestina Warbeck.”

Ron turned his back on the Burrow. “Let’s try up here,” he said, leading the way over the top of the hill. Even though the world appeared barren and empty around them, Draco went ahead and applied his glamour; better to be safe than sorry. They walked for a few hours, huddled together against the cold on the relatively open moors. The cluster of low hills appeared to be uninhabited apart from one small cottage, which seemed deserted.

“Do you think it’s theirs, and they’ve gone away for Christmas?” Hermione asked, peering through the window at a neat little kitchen with geraniums on the windowsill.

Ron looked as well, and snorted a laugh. “Listen, I’ve got a feeling you’d be able to tell who lived there if you looked through the Lovegoods’ window. Let’s try the next lot of hills.” So they Disapparated a few miles farther north. “Aha!” Ron said triumphantly, as the wind whipped their hair and clothes. Ron was pointing upward, toward the top of the hill on which they had appeared, where a most strange-looking house rose vertically against the sky, a great black cylinder with a ghostly moon hanging behind it in the afternoon sky. “That’s got to be Luna’s house, who else would live in a place like that? It looks like a giant rook!”

“It’s nothing like a bird,” Hermione said in confusion, frowning at the tower.

“I was talking about a chess rook,” Ron clarified. “A castle to you.”

Ron’s legs were the longest and he reached the top of the hill first. When Draco and Hermione caught up with him, panting and clutching their sides, they found him grinning broadly. “It’s theirs,” Ron said confidently. “Just take a look.”

Three hand-painted signs had been tacked to a broken-down gate. The first read,

_ THE QUIBBLER.  _

_ EDITOR: X. LOVEGOOD  _

the second,

_ PICK YOUR OWN MISTLETOE _

the third,

_ KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS _

The gate creaked as they opened it. The zigzagging path leading to the front door was overgrown with a variety of odd plants, including a bush covered in the orange radish-like fruit that Luna sometimes wore as earrings. Draco thought that he recognized a Snargaluff, and gave the wizened stump a wide berth. Two aged crab apple trees, bent with the wind, stripped of leaves but still heavy with berry-sized red fruits and bushy crowns of white-beaded mistletoe, stood sentinel on either side of the front door. A little owl with a slightly flattened, hawklike head peered down at them from one of the branches.

“Well,” Hermione said, seeming to bolster herself a bit. “I suppose we’re here now--let’s do this.” Stepping forward, she rapped three times on the thick black door, which was studded with iron nails and bore a knocker shaped like an eagle.

Barely ten seconds passed, then the door was flung open and there stood Xenophilius Lovegood, barefoot and wearing what appeared to be a stained nightshirt. His long white candyfloss hair was dirty and unkempt. The man had been positively dapper at Bill and Fleur’s wedding by comparison.

“What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?” he cried in a high-pitched, querulous voice, looking first at Hermione, then at Ron, and finally at Draco.

“Hello, Mr. Lovegood,” Draco said politely, holding out his hand. “I’m--James Black. We met at Ron’s brother’s wedding back in the summer, do you remember me? And of course, you know Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger.”

Xenophilius did not take Draco’s hand, although the eye that was not pointing inward at his nose roamed over his face, from his falsely dark hair to his grey eyes, to the now-healed scar over his right eye from the splinching he’d endured after the Ministry infiltration.

“Would it be okay if we came in?” Draco asked, lowering his hand. “There’s something we’d like to ask you about.”

“I...I’m not sure that’s advisable,” Xenophilius whispered. He swallowed and cast a quick look around the garden. “Rather a shock...My word...I...I’m afraid I don’t really think I ought to—”

“It won’t take long,” Draco promised, slightly disappointed by this less-than-warm welcome. Certainly Xenophilius did not know him, aside from the perhaps five minutes’ total of conversation they’d shared over the course of the wedding’s several hours--but he knew Ron from his family, and he had to know that Ron and Hermione were central to the cause that he himself apparently was defying the very government to continue supporting. It did not make sense for him to appear this uneasy at the sight of them on his doorstep.

“I—oh, all right then. Come in, quickly. Quickly!” They were barely over the threshold when Xenophilius slammed the door shut behind them, making Hermione jump, wide-eyed.

They were standing in the most peculiar kitchen that Draco had ever seen. The room was perfectly circular, so that it felt like being inside a giant pepper pot. Everything was curved  to fit the walls—the stove, the sink, and cupboards—and all of it had been painted with flowers, insects, and birds in bright primary colors. Draco thought he recognized Luna’s style in the decor and structure; the effect, in such an enclosed space, was slightly overwhelming.

In the middle of the floor, a wrought-iron spiral staircase led to the upper levels. There was a great deal of clattering and banging coming from overhead: Draco wondered what Luna could be doing. “You’d better come up, then,” Xenophilius muttered, still looking extremely uncomfortable with their presence, and he led the way.

The room above seemed to be a combination of living room and workplace, and as such, was even more cluttered than the kitchen had been. Though much smaller and entirely round, it somewhat resembled the Room of Requirement whenever it took its form as a gigantic labyrinth comprised of centuries of hidden and forgotten objects. There were piles upon piles of books and papers on every surface; delicately made models of creatures that Draco did not recognize, all flapping wings or snapping jaws, hung from the ceiling.

Luna was not there: The thing that was making such a racket was a wooden object covered in magically turning cogs and wheels. It looked like the bizarre offspring of a workbench and a set of old shelves, but after a moment Draco realized that it was an old-fashioned printing press, due to the fact that it was churning out Quibbler copies.

“Excuse me,” Xenophilius said, and he strode over to the machine, seized a grubby tablecloth from beneath an immense number of books and papers, which all tumbled onto the floor, and threw it over the press, somewhat muffling the loud bangs and clatters. He then faced Draco again. “Why have you come here?”

Before Draco could reply, Hermione let out a small cry of shock. “Mr. Lovegood—what’s that?”

She was pointing at an enormous, gray spiral horn, not unlike that of a unicorn, which had been mounted on the wall, protruding several feet into the room. “It is the horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” said Xenophilius, looking confused but proud.

“No it isn’t!” Hermione gasped.

“Hermione,” Draco muttered, eyeing Xenophilius. “Now’s not really the moment—”

“But it’s an Erumpent horn! It’s a Class B Tradeable Material and it’s an extraordinarily dangerous thing to have in a house!” Hermione protested.

“How d’you know it’s an Erumpent horn?” Ron asked, though he was already edging away from the horn as fast as he could, given the extreme clutter of the room.

“There’s a description in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them! Mr. Lovegood, you need to get rid of it straightaway, don’t you know it can explode at the slightest touch?”

“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” Xenophilius said very clearly, a mulish look upon his face. “Is a shy and highly magical creature, and its horn—”

“Mr. Lovegood, I recognize the grooved markings around the base, that’s an Erumpent horn and it’s incredibly dangerous—I don’t know where you got it—”

“I bought it,” Xenophilius pressed on dogmatically, “two weeks ago, from a delightful young wizard who knew of my interest in the exquisite Snorkack. A Christmas surprise for my Luna. Now,” he said, turning back to Draco and pointedly ignoring Hermione’s continued alarmed spluttering. “Why exactly have you come here, Mr. Black?”

“We need your help,” Draco replied, before Hermione could start again; he could see the validity of her concern, especially if she was correct in her identifying of the horn--and how could she not be, it was Hermione bloody Granger--but something was wrong here, and Draco wanted to glean whatever information they possibly could before getting out of this confusing, potentially dangerous situation.

“Ah,” Xenophilius mumbled. “Help. Hmm.” His good eye moved again over Draco’s face, lingering at his scarred eye. He seemed simultaneously terrified and mesmerized, and Draco was a little too wary to press into the older wizard’s mind to try and determine what he was thinking as he took in Draco’s falsified appearance. “Yes, well. The thing is...helping...helping the friends of Harry Potter...rather dangerous...”

“Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s their first duty to help us?” Ron asked, looking bewildered and even a touch angry. “In that magazine of yours? You’ve been publishing for months that the fight’s not over, that we need to carry on Harry’s work!”

Xenophilius glanced behind him at the concealed printing press, still banging and clattering beneath the tablecloth. “Er—yes, I have expressed that view. However—”

“That’s for everyone else to do, not you personally?” Ron asked, a bit coldly now.

Xenophilius did not answer. He kept swallowing, his eyes darting between the three of them. Draco had the impression that he was undergoing some painful internal struggle. “Where’s Luna?” Hermione asked, trying to sound gentle. “Let’s see what she thinks. I’m sure she’ll want you to help us, Mr. Lovegood. She liked Harry, and--” Hermione looked briefly at Draco, but she’d caught herself. “She’s a dear friend to...to all of us, as well.”

Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself. Finally he said in a shaky voice difficult to hear over the noise of the printing press, “Luna is down at the stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She...she will like to see you. I’ll go and call her and then—yes, very well. I shall try to help you.” He disappeared down the spiral staircase and they heard the front door open and close.

In his absence, the trio looked at each other worriedly. “Cowardly old wart,” Ron said crossly. “Luna’s got ten times his guts.”

“I’m sure he’s just concerned about what’ll happen to them both if the Death Eaters find out that we were here,” Draco pointed out. “Well, you two, anyway, even my affiliation with Sirius doesn’t strictly make me interesting or important. James Black could be bloody anyone.”

“Well, I agree with Ron,” Hermione admitted, though she ignored the way Ron brightened at hearing this. “Awful old hypocrite, telling everyone else to help us and then trying to worm out of it himself. And for heaven’s sake keep away from that horn.”

Draco obliged, crossing to the window on the far side of the room. He could see a stream, a thin, glittering ribbon lying far below them at the base of the hill. They were very high up; a bird fluttered past the window as he stared in the direction of the Burrow, now invisible beyond another line of hills.

He turned away from the window and his gaze fell upon another peculiar object standing upon the cluttered, curved sideboard: a stone bust of a beautiful but austere-looking witch wearing a most bizarre-looking headdress. Two objects that resembled golden ear trumpets curved out from the sides. A tiny pair of glittering blue wings was stuck to a leather strap that ran over the top of her head, while one of the orange radishes had been stuck to a second strap around her forehead.

“Look at this,” Draco said, smirking.

“Fetching,” Ron agreed, deadpan. “Surprised he didn’t wear that to the wedding.”

They heard the front door close, and a moment later Xenophilius had climbed back up the spiral staircase into the room, his thin legs now encased in Wellington boots, bearing a tray of ill-assorted teacups and a steaming teapot.

“Ah, you have spotted my pet invention,” he said, shoving the tray into Hermione’s arms and joining Draco at the statue’s side. “Modeled, fittingly enough, upon the head of the beautiful Rowena Ravenclaw. ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure!’ ” He indicated the objects like ear trumpets. “These are the Wrackspurt siphons—to remove all sources of distraction from the thinker’s immediate area. Here,” he pointed out the tiny wings, “A billywig propeller, to induce an elevated frame of mind. Finally,” he pointed to the orange radish, “the Dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the ability to accept the extraordinary.”

Xenophilius strode back to the tea tray, which Hermione had managed to balance precariously on one of the cluttered side tables. “May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?” said Xenophilius. “We make it ourselves.”

As he started to pour out the drink, which was as deeply purple as beetroot juice, he added, “Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here. She ought not to be too long, she has caught nearly enough Plimpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit down and help yourselves to sugar...now,” he removed a tottering pile of papers from an armchair and sat down, his Wellingtoned legs crossed, “How, exactly, may I help you, Mr. Black?”

“Well,” Draco began, before glancing at Hermione; she nodded encouragingly, “It’s about that symbol you were wearing around your neck at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Mr. Lovegood. We wondered what it meant.”

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows, then reached beneath the collar of his nightshirt and drew the symbol in question out, still hanging on its delicate chain at his throat. “Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?”

Draco blinked, then turned to look at Ron and Hermione; neither of them seemed to have understood what Xenophilius had said either. “The Deathly Hallows?”

“That’s right,” Xenophilius nodded. “You haven’t heard of them? I’m not surprised. Very, very few wizards believe in them any longer. Witness that knuckle-headed young man at your brother’s wedding,” he nodded at Ron, “who attacked me for sporting the symbol of a well-known Dark wizard! Such ignorance. There is nothing Dark about the Hallows—at least, not in that crude sense. One simply uses the symbol to reveal oneself to other believers, in the hope that they might help one with the Quest.”

He stirred several lumps of sugar into his Gurdyroot infusion and drank some. “I’m sorry,” Draco said slowly. “I still don’t really understand.” To be polite, he took a sip from his cup too, and almost gagged; the stuff was quite disgusting, as though someone had liquidized bogey-flavored Every Flavor Beans.

“Well, you see, believers seek the Deathly Hallows,” Xenophilius explained, smacking his lips in apparent appreciation of the Gurdyroot infusion.

“But what  _ are _ the Deathly Hallows?” Hermione pressed him.

Xenophilius set aside his empty teacup. “I assume that you are all familiar with “The Tale of the Three Brothers’?”

Hermione replied, “No,” while Ron and Draco both said, “Yes.”

Xenophilius nodded, gravely and knowingly. “Well, well, Ms. Granger, the whole thing starts with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’...I have a copy somewhere....”

He glanced vaguely around the room, at the piles of parchment and books, but Hermione intervened. “I’ve got a copy, Mr. Lovegood, I’ve got it right here.” And she pulled out  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _ from the small, beaded bag.

“The original?” Xenophilius inquired sharply, and when she nodded, he said, “Well then, why don’t you read it aloud? Much the best way to make sure we all understand.”

“Er...all right,” said Hermione nervously, blushing slightly at the impromptu performance. She opened the book, and Draco once again saw the symbol that they were investigating at the top of the page as she gave a little cough, and began to read.  _ “‘There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight—’” _

“Midnight, our mum always told us,” Ron mused, who had stretched out, arms behind his head, to listen. Hermione shot him a look of annoyance, and he flushed. “Sorry, I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!”

“Yes, because we really need a bit more fear in our lives,” Draco quipped before he could stop himself. Xenophilius did not seem to be paying much attention, but was staring out of the window at the sky, and Ron snorted a laugh. Draco smirked. “Go on, Hermione.”

_ “‘In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across. However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure. And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic, and said that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him. So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother. Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead. And then Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like. The youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not trust Death. So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.’” _

“Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Ron interrupted again, looking bemused. “What, so he can sneak up on people? Reckon sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking--sorry, Hermione.” He quieted again under the hard look she shot at him before she continued reading.

_ “‘Then Death stood aside and allowed the three brothers to continue on their way, and they did so, talking with wonder of the adventure they had had, and admiring Death’s gifts. In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination. The first brother traveled on for a week or more, and reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally, with the Elder Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel that followed. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible. That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay, wine-sodden, upon his bed. The thief took the wand and, for good measure, slit the oldest brother’s throat. And so Death took the first brother for his own. Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his �delight, the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry, before her untimely death, appeared at once before him. Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered. Finally the second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, killed himself so as truly to join her. And so Death took the second brother for his own. But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life.’” _

Hermione closed the book. It was a moment or two of silence before Xenophilius seemed to realize that she had stopped reading, then he withdrew his gaze from the window and said, “Well, there you are.”

“I’m sorry?” Hermione replied, sounding confused.

“Those are the Deathly Hallows,” Xenophilius explained. He picked up a quill from a packed table at his elbow, and pulled a torn piece of parchment from between more books. “The Elder Wand,” he said, and he drew a straight vertical line upon the parchment. “The Resurrection Stone,” he said, and he added a circle on top of the line. “The Cloak of Invisibility,” he finished, en-closing both line and circle in a triangle, to make the symbol that had so intrigued Hermione. “Together,” he said, “the Deathly Hallows.”

“But there’s no mention of the words ‘Deathly Hallows’ in the story,” Hermione pointed out.

“Well, of course not,” Xenophilius chuckled, maddeningly smug. “That is a children’s tale, told to amuse rather than to instruct. Those of us who understand these matters, however, recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor master of Death.”

There was a short silence in which Xenophilius glanced out of the window. Already the sun was getting low in the sky. “Luna ought to have enough Plimpies soon,” he said quietly.

“When you say ‘master of Death’—” Ron began.

“Master,” Xenophilius cut him off, waving an airy hand. “Conqueror. Vanquisher. Whichever term you prefer.”

“But then...do you mean...” Hermione said slowly, and Draco could tell that she was trying very hard to keep any trace of skepticism out of her voice, “That you believe these objects—these Hallows—actually exist?”

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows again, looking at her as if she might be dim. “Well, of course.”

“But,” Hermione managed, and Draco could hear her restraint starting to crack, “Mr. Lovegood, how can you possibly believe—?”

“Luna has told me all about you, young lady,” Xenophilius informed her. “You are, I gather, not unintelligent, but painfully limited. Narrow. Close-minded.”

“Perhaps you ought to try on the hat, Hermione,” Ron interjected, nodding toward the ludicrous headdress. His voice shook with the strain of not laughing as Hermione’s face contorted with disbelief and annoyance.

“Mr. Lovegood,” she tried again. “We all know that there are such things as Invisibility Cloaks. They are rare, but they exist. But—”

“Ah, but the Third Hallow is a true Cloak of Invisibility, Miss Granger! I mean to say, it is not a traveling cloak imbued with a Disillusionment Charm, or carrying a Bedazzling Hex, or else woven from Demiguise hair, which will hide one initially but fade with the years until it turns opaque. We are talking about a cloak that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it. How many cloaks have you ever seen like that, Miss Granger?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer; then she closed it again, looking more confused than ever. She, Draco, and Ron all traded surreptitious glances, and Draco knew that they were all thinking the same thing. It so happened that a cloak exactly like the one Xenophilius had just described was in the room with them at that very moment, tucked safely into the beaded bag that Hermione had clutched in her lap, underneath  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard. _

“Exactly,” Xenophilius declared, as if he had defeated them all in a well-reasoned argument. “None of you have ever seen such a thing. The possessor would be immeasurably rich, would he not?”

Draco’s lips twitched at that. In fairness, he was by inheritance quite wealthy--and Harry Potter had been as well, and he was the Cloak’s previous owner. But that hadn’t been due to possession of the rare garment for either of them, of course.

Xenophilius glanced out of the window again; the sky was now tinged with the faintest trace of pink. “Alright,” said Hermione, disconcerted. “Say the Cloak existed...what about the stone, Mr. Lovegood? The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?”

“What of it?"

“Well, how can that be real?”

“Prove that it is not,” Xenophilius countered, and Hermione looked outraged.

“But that’s—I’m sorry, but that’s completely ridiculous! How can I possibly prove it doesn’t exist? Do you expect me to get hold of—of all the pebbles in the world and test them? I mean, you could claim that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!”

“Yes, you could,” Xenophilius agreed. “I am glad to see that you are opening your mind a little.”

“So the Elder Wand,” Draco interrupted quickly, before Hermione could retort; she was turning rather red with agitation. “You think that exists too?”

“Oh, well, in that case there is endless evidence,” Xenophilius replied. “The Elder Wand is the Hallow that is most easily traced, because of the way in which it passes from hand to hand.”

“Which is what?” Draco asked, pressing to keep him explaining so that Hermione could not lose her temper with finality.

“Which is that the possessor of the wand must capture it from its previous owner, if he is to be truly master of it,” Xenophilius said. “Surely you have heard of the way the wand came to Egbert the Egregious, after his slaughter of Emeric the Evil? Of how Godelot died in his own cellar after his son, Hereward, took the wand from him? Of the dreadful Loxias, who took the wand from Barnabas Deverill, whom he had killed? The bloody trail of the Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding history.”

Draco glanced at Hermione. She was frowning at Xenophilius, but she did not contradict him on any of these historical notes. “So where do you think the Elder Wand is now?” Ron asked the older man.

“Alas, who knows?” Xenophilius said regretfully, as he gazed out of the window. “Who knows where the Elder Wand lies hidden? The trail goes cold with Arcus and Livius. Who can say which of them really defeated Loxias, and which took the wand? And who can say who may have defeated them? History, alas, does not tell us.”

There was a pause. Finally Hermione asked stiffly, “Mr. Lovegood, does the Peverell family have anything to do with the Deathly Hallows?”

Xenophilius looked taken aback as something shifted in Draco’s memory, but he could not locate it.  _ Peverell... _ he knew he was descended from one such name, he had made the connection during Bob Odgon’s memory with the Gaunts. But he never thought that his ancestors might have anything to do with it.

“But you have been misleading me, young woman!” Xenophilius cried, now sitting up much straighter in his chair and goggling at Hermione. “I thought you were new to the Hallows Quest! Many of us Questers believe that the Peverells have everything—everything!—to do with the Hallows!”

“Who are the Peverells?” Ron asked, looking more confused than Draco felt.

“That was the name on the grave with the mark on it, in Godric’s Hollow,” Hermione said, still watching Xenophilius closely. “Ignotus Peverell.”

Draco blinked, processing that. Just as he had made the connection in the memory Dumbledore had shown him with the Gaunts, he remembered, again, that he was descended from the Peverell line. But he didn’t think he was related to Ignotus. There was another, but he couldn’t remember his name.

“Exactly!” Xenophilius enthused, his forefinger raised pedantically. “The sign of the Deathly Hallows on Ignotus’s grave is conclusive proof!”

“Of what?” Ron asked, even as Hermione huffed.

“Why, that the three brothers in the story were actually the three Peverell brothers, Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus! That they were the original owners of the Hallows!” With another glance at the window he got to his feet, picked up the tray, and headed for the spiral staircase. “You three will stay for dinner?” he called, as he vanished downstairs again. “Everybody always requests our recipe for Freshwater Plimpy soup...”

“Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St. Mungo’s,” Ron muttered under his breath. Draco waited until they could hear Xenophilius moving about in the kitchen downstairs before speaking again. “What do you think?” he asked Hermione.

“Oh, Draco,” she said wearily, “It’s a pile of utter rubbish. This can’t be what the sign really means. This must just be his weird take on it. What a waste of time.”

“I s’pose this is the man who brought us Crumple-Horned Snorkacks,” Ron allowed.

“You don’t believe him either?” Draco asked him.

“Nah, that story’s just one of those things you tell kids to teach them lessons, isn’t it? ‘Don’t go looking for trouble, don’t pick fights, don’t go messing around with stuff that’s best left alone! Just keep your head down, mind your own business, and you’ll be okay’ Come to think of it,” Ron added, “Maybe that story’s why elder wood wands are supposed to be unlucky.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked curiously, always keep to absorb new knowledge.

“One of those superstitions, isn’t it? ‘May-born witches will marry Muggles.’ ‘Jinx by twilight, undone by midnight.’ ‘Wand of elder, never prosper.’ You must’ve heard them. My mum’s full of them.”

“I was raised by Muggles,” Hermione reminded him bemusedly. “I was taught different superstitions.” She sighed deeply as a rather pungent smell drifted up from the kitchen. The one good thing about her exasperation with Xenophilius was that it seemed to have made her forget that she was annoyed at Ron.

“I do think you’re right, though,” she went on. “It’s just a morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one you’d choose—”

The three of them spoke at the same time; Hermione said, “the Cloak,” Ron said, “the wand,” and Draco said, “the stone.” They looked at each other, both surprised and amused.

“I mean, you’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron told Hermione, “But you wouldn’t need to be invisible if you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, come on!”

“We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” Draco pointed out.

“And it’s helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed!” Hermione retorted. “Whereas the wand would be bound to attract trouble—”

“Only if you shouted about it,” Ron argued back. “Only if you were prat enough to go dancing around, waving it over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable wand, come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut—”

“Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” Hermione demanded, looking skeptical. “You know, the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about extra-powerful wands for hundreds of years.”

“There have?” Ron asked in surprise.

Hermione looked at him with exasperation; the expression was so endearingly familiar that Draco and Ron had to grin at each other. The three of them were properly back, it seemed. “The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up under different names through the centuries, usually in the possession of some Dark wizard who’s boasting about them. Professor Binns mentioned some of them, but—oh, it’s all nonsense. Wands are only as powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better than other people’s."

“But how do you know,” Ron pressed, “That those wands—the Deathstick and the Wand of Destiny—aren’t the same wand, resurfacing over the centuries under different names?”

“What, and they’re all really the Elder Wand, made by Death?” Hermione asked scornfully before looking to Draco. “So then, why would you take the stone?”

“Well, if you could bring people back...” Draco fell silent for a moment, his mind whirling with the weight of what such a thing could mean. If you could bring the dead back...so many tragedies could be undone. All those people who had turned away from Voldemort and ignored his summons, only to be hunted down and murdered. All those innocent Muggleborns who Umbridge was torturing and imprisoning, perhaps killing.

They could bring Harry Potter back. Maybe even give him back his parents.

“But according to Beedle the Bard, they wouldn’t want to come back, would they?” Draco added, refocusing as he thought about the tale they had just heard. “I don’t suppose there have been loads of other stories about a stone that can raise the dead, have there?” he asked Hermione.

“No,” she replied sadly. “I don’t think anyone except Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves that it's possible. Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer’s Stone; you know, instead of a stone to make you immortal, a stone to reverse death."

The smell from the kitchen was getting stronger: It was something like burning underpants. Draco wondered whether it would be possible to eat enough of whatever Xenophilius was cooking to spare his feelings.

“What about the Cloak, though?” Ron asked slowly. “Don’t you realize, he’s right? I’ve got so used to Harry’s Cloak and how good it is, I never stopped to think. I’ve never heard of one like it. It’s infallible. We’ve never been spotted under it—”

“Of course not—we’re invisible when we’re under it, Ron!” Hermione protested, rolling her eyes.

“But all the stuff he said about other cloaks, and they’re not exactly ten a Knut, you know, is true! It’s never occurred to me before, but I’ve heard stuff about charms wearing off cloaks when they get old, or them being ripped apart by spells so they’ve got holes in. Harry’s was owned by his dad, so it’s not exactly new, is it, but it’s just...perfect!”

“Yes, all right, but Ron, the stone...” As they continued bickering in whispers, Draco rose and moved around the room, only half-listening. Reaching the spiral stair, he raised his eyes absently to the next level--and was distracted at once. His own face--his real face--was looking back at him from the ceiling of the room above.

After a moment’s bewilderment, he realized that it was not an enchanted mirror, but a painting. Curious, he began to climb the stairs.

Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with five beautifully painted faces: Draco, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville. They were not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain magic about them all the same: Draco felt as though they breathed. What appeared to be fine golden chains wove around the pictures, linking them together, but after examining them for a minute or so, Draco realized that the chains were actually one word, repeated a thousand times in golden ink:  _ friends...friends...friends... _

Feeling a great rush of affection for Luna, he looked around the room some more. There was a large photograph beside the bed, of a young Luna and a woman who looked like her, hugging her tightly. Luna looked rather better-groomed in this picture than Draco had ever seen her in life.

The picture was dusty.

This struck Draco as slightly odd, and he took another, more careful look around. Something was wrong. The pale blue carpet was also thick with dust. There were no clothes in the wardrobe, whose doors stood ajar. The bed had a cold, unfriendly look, as though it had not been slept in for weeks. A single cobweb stretched over the nearest window, accented against the backdrop of a blood-red sky.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked at once, as Draco descended the staircase swiftly; but before he could respond, Xenophilius reached the top of the stairs from the kitchen, now holding a tray laden with steaming bowls.

“Mr. Lovegood,” Draco said, slowly and cautiously. “Where is Luna?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where is Luna?” he repeated, and behind him, Ron and Hermione went still at the intensity in Draco’s voice, sensing that something was amiss.

Xenophilius halted on the top step. “I—I’ve already told you. She is down at Bottom Bridge, fishing for Plimpies.”

“So why have you only laid that tray for four?” Hermione spoke up, her voice softer.

Xenophilius tried to speak, but no sound came out. The only noise was the continued chugging of the printing press, and a slight rattle from the tray as Xenophilius’s hands shook.

“I don’t think Luna’s been here for several weeks, has she?” Draco asked. “Her clothes are gone, her bed hasn’t been slept in. Where is she? And why do you keep looking out of the window?”

With a shocking clang, Xenophilius dropped the tray. The bowls bounced and smashed. Draco, Ron, and Hermione drew their wands, and Xenophilius froze, his hand about to enter his pocket.

At that moment the printing press gave a huge bang and numerous Quibblers came streaming across the floor from underneath the tablecloth; the press fell silent at last. Hermione stooped down and picked up one of the magazines, her wand still pointing at Mr. Lovegood. “Oh...oh no. Look at this.”

Draco strode over to her as quickly as he could through all the clutter while Ron maintained a steady eye on Xenophilius, wand unwavering. The front of The Quibbler carried the same pictures of Ron and Hermione that had been published in the Prophet, months before, declaring them wanted for questioning about Dumbledore. Here, they were emblazoned with the words  _ Undesirable Number One and Number Two, _ and captioned with the reward money for their capture or location.

“The Quibbler’s going for a new angle, then?” Draco asked coldly, his mind working very fast. “Is that what you were doing when you went into the garden, Mr. Lovegood? Sending an owl to the Ministry?”

Xenophilius licked his lips, staring back at Draco with haunted eyes. “They took my Luna,” he whispered. “Because of what I’ve been writing. They took my Luna and I don’t know where she is, what they’ve done to her. But they might give her back to me if I—if I—”

“Hand over Harry Potter’s best friends?” Hermione finished for him, looking close to tears. “Betray and turn in the people fighting to carry out his cause?”

“No deal,” said Ron flatly. “Get out of the way, we’re leaving.”

Xenophilius looked ghastly, a century old, his lips drawn back into a dreadful leer. “They will be here at any moment. I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must not leave.” He spread his arms in front of the staircase, and Draco had a sudden, gut-clenching vision; he certainly hadn’t been there to see it, but he knew that Lily Potter had once done the same thing, placing herself defensively in front of her infant son’s crib.

“Don’t make us hurt you,” Draco said firmly. “Get out of the way, Mr. Lovegood.”

“Oh--oh  _ no! _ Look!” Hermione screamed. Figures on broomsticks were flying past the windows. As the three of them looked away from him, Xenophilius drew his wand. Draco realized their mistake just in time; he launched himself sideways, shoving Ron and Hermione out of harm’s way as Xenophilius’s Stunning Spell soared across the room and hit the Erumpent horn instead of any of them.

There was a colossal explosion.

The sound of it seemed to blow the room apart; fragments of wood and paper and rubble flew in all directions, along with an impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Draco was flung hard through the air, then crashed to the floor, unable to see as debris rained upon him, his arms over his head to shield his eyes.

He heard Hermione’s scream, Ron’s yell, and then a series of sickening metallic thuds, which told him that Xenophilius had been blasted off his feet and fallen backward down the spiral stairs. Half buried in rubble, Draco tried to raise himself: He could barely breathe or see for dust.

Half of the ceiling had fallen in, and the end of Luna’s bed was hanging through the hole. The bust of Rowena Ravenclaw lay beside him with half its face missing; fragments of torn parchment were floating through the air; and most of the printing press lay on its side, blocking the top of the staircase back down to the kitchen.

Then another white shape moved close by, and Hermione, coated in dust like a second statue, pressed her finger to her lips. The door downstairs crashed open. “Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry, Travers?” a rough voice rang out. “Didn’t I tell you this nutter was just raving as usual?”

There was a bang and a scream of pain from Xenophilius. “No...no...upstairs...Pott--Potter’s friends, the two that’re most wanted--! And another, another boy, I d-don’t know--”

“I told you last week, Lovegood, we weren’t coming back for anything less than some solid information! Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your daughter for that stupid bleeding headdress? And the week before—” Another bang, another squeal, and Draco shuddered with rage and horror at knowing that Xenophilius was being tortured directly beneath their feet. “—when you thought we’d give her back if you offered us proof there are Crumple—”  _ Bang! _ “—Headed—”  _ Bang! _ “—Snorkacks?”

“No—no—I beg you!” Xenophilius was sobbing. “It really is them! Really!”

“And  _ now _ it turns out you only called us here to try and blow us up!” the unseen Death Eater roared, and there was a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of agony from Xenophilius. “The place looks like it’s about to fall in, Selwyn,” came a cool second voice, echoing up the mangled staircase. “The stairs are completely blocked. Could try clearing it? Might bring the place down.”

“You lying piece of filth,” shouted the wizard named Selwyn. “You’ve never seen Potter or his Mudblood and blood traitor little mates in your life, have you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us, did you? And you think you’ll get your girl back like this?”

“I swear...I swear...they are upstairs! And another, a Black, he said his name was Black--I do not know--”

_ “Homenum revelio,”  _ growled the voice at the foot of the stairs. Draco heard Hermione gasp, and he had the odd sensation that something was swooping low over him, immersing his body in its shadow. “Wait--there is someone up there all right, Selwyn,” the second man said sharply.

“It’s Potter’s friends, I tell you, it’s them! The Black boy, he’s helping them too, you’ll want him, too--” sobbed Xenophilius. “Please...please...give me Luna, just let me have Luna....”

“You can have your little girl, Lovegood,” said Selwyn, “If you get up those stairs and bring me down whoever’s here, and it had  _ better _ be Potter’s little allies. But if this is a plot, if it’s a trick, if you’ve got an accomplice waiting up there to ambush us, we’ll see if we can spare a bit of your daughter for you to bury.”

Xenophilius gave a wail of fear and despair. There were scurryings and scrapings: Xenophilius was trying to get through the debris on the stairs.

“Come on,” Draco whispered, “We’ve got to get out of here.” He started to dig himself out under cover of all the noise Xenophilius was making on the staircase. Ron was buried deepest: Draco and Hermione climbed, as quietly as they could, over all the wreckage to where he lay, trying to push a heavy chest of drawers off his legs. While Xenophilius’s banging and scraping drew nearer and nearer, Hermione managed to free Ron with the use of a Hover Charm.

“All right,” Hermione breathed out, as the broken printing press blocking the top of the stairs began to tremble; Xenophilius was mere feet away from them. She was still coated white with dust. “Do you trust me, Draco?”

Draco looked at her swiftly in surprise, brow pinching. “Obviously--”

“Okay then,” Hermione whispered. “Give me the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, you’re going to put it on.”

“Me? But Draco—”

“Please, Ron! Draco, hold on tight to my hand, Ron, grab my shoulder.” Draco held out his left hand, and Ron vanished beneath the Cloak. The printing press blocking the stairs was vibrating: Xenophilius was trying to shift it using a Hover Charm. Draco did not know what Hermione was waiting for. “Hold tight,” she whispered again, and the intensity in her tone stopped him from arguing or trying to guess where this was leading. “Hold tight...any second...”

Xenophilius’s paper-white face appeared over the top of the sideboard, and Hermione moved. “Obliviate!” she cried, pointing her wand first into his face, then at the floor beneath them. “Deprimo!”

She had blasted a hole in the sitting room floor. The three of them fell like boulders, with Draco still holding onto her hand for dear life. There was a scream from below, and he glimpsed two men trying to get out of the way as vast quantities of rubble and broken furniture rained all around them from the shattered ceiling; Hermione’s wand moved past his face, a flare of light flying across the room and striking the wall near where the two Death Eaters were scrambling to be out of the way of the small avalanche.

Then Hermione twisted in midair and the thundering of the collapsing house rang in Draco’s ears as she dragged him once more into darkness.


	37. All I See Is Shattered Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Draco could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck, get them safely out of this?”

Draco fell, panting, onto grass. He scrambled up at once, his wand coming back up, on guard and ready to act if they weren’t yet safe. They seemed to have landed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a circle around them, waving her wand. “Protego Totalum...Salvio Hexia...”

“That treacherous old  _ bleeder!”  _ Ron growled, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Draco, who put it away again. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I can’t believe we got out of that!”

_ “Cave Inimicum... _ Didn’t I  _ say _ it was an Erumpent horn, didn’t I warn him? And now his house has been blown apart!”

“Serves him right,” Ron pointed out, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs from being buried in, and then escaping from the Lovegoods’ house. “What d’you reckon they’ll do to him?”

“Oh, I hope they don’t kill him!” Hermione groaned, closing her eyes in agony. “That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of us before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying! I wanted them to know that I was there, and that there really was someone else that they didn’t know, since he was babbling about Draco and using his fake name...” 

She paused, then blushed a little, looking at Draco nervously. “I actually--that final charm I fired off. I got the idea from the monument in Godric’s Hollow. ...I put the  _ Draco _ constellation on the wall where those Death Eaters would see it. If they’re going to know that there’s someone new to be on the lookout for...we may as well protect your real identity as best as we can. Give them something vague and intimidating to work with. And if rumors come out of that mark appearing at the Potter memorial, too, well...” Hermione shrugged sheepishly. “Let the ‘Dragon’ be all they hear about.”

Draco had to admit, it was fairly clever. “I’m more than okay with that,” he assured her, smirking. If they weren’t all out of breath, still covered in dust and debris, and freshly scared out of their wits, he’d have kissed her for the odd sweetness of her actions. Hermione smiled back at him, relieved that he understood.

“Why hide me, though?” Ron asked, siphoning the dust off of his clothing with his wand.

“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron. They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported us openly--what would happen to your family if they could confirm that you’re  _ not _ there sick, but out here on the run with me and ‘James Black?’”

“...Good point,” Ron conceded, sighing heavily. “Sooner or later, though, they’re gonna realize that I’m not home....then I’ll be just as deep in the fire as both of you."

“We’ll handle that hurdle if and when we come to it,” Draco said heavily. “Fuck, Hermione, you really do think so bloody fast on your feet. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

She beamed at them both for the praise, but then became solemn again almost at once. “What about Luna?”

“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive—” Ron began.

“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” Hermione gasped, shuddering. “She must be alive, she must!”

“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” Ron went on, looking apologetic. “Whether she survives the place, though...Loads don’t....”

“She will,” Draco said quietly. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, our Luna, much tougher than people give her credit for. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.” He swallowed, wondering if Ginny knew that her girlfriend was in such terrible danger, or if she’d been lied to about her whereabouts. If she knew...he hoped she didn’t do anything foolish.

“I hope you’re right,” Hermione whispered. She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if—”

“—if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah,” Ron agreed tersely. They put up the tent and retreated inside it, where Ron made them tea. After their narrow escape, the chilly, musty old place felt like home: safe, familiar, and friendly.

“Oh, why did we go there?” Hermione moaned, after a few minutes’ silence and tea-sipping. “Draco, I’m so sorry, you were right, it was Godric’s Hollow all over again, a complete waste of time! The Deathly Hallows...such rubbish...although actually.” A sudden thought seemed to have struck her. “He might have made it all up, mightn’t he? He probably doesn’t believe in the Deathly Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us talking until the Death Eaters arrived!”

“I don’t think so,” Ron replied. “It’s a damn sight harder making stuff up when you’re under stress than you’d think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught me. It was much easier pretending to be Stan, because I knew a bit about him, rather than inventing a whole new person. Old Lovegood was under loads of pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put...I reckon he told us the truth, or what he thinks is the truth, just to keep us talking.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” Hermione sighed. “Even if he was being honest about what  _ he _ thinks, I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life.”

“Hang on, though,” Ron said, raising a hand. “The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth too, wasn’t it?”

“But the Deathly Hallows  _ can’t _ exist, Ron!”

“You keep saying that, but one of them can, and apparently does.” Ron pointed out. “Harry’s Invisibility Cloak—”

“‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a  _ story,” _ Hermione cut him off firmly. “A story about how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we’d have everything we need already!”

“I don’t know. We could do with an unbeatable wand,” Draco said dryly, turning his own wand over between his fingers. He did love and trust it--but it’d be nice to be armed with one that he knew could not be broken or beaten, no matter who he faced with it.

“There’s no such thing!”

“You said there have been loads of wands—the Deathstick, and whatever else they were called—”

“Alright; even if you want to kid yourself that the Elder Wand’s real, what about the Resurrection Stone?” Her fingers sketched quotation marks around the name, and her tone dripped sarcasm. “No magic can raise the dead, and that’s that!”

“Well yes--but she, the girl in the tale, didn’t actually come back, did she? The story says that once people are dead, they belong with the dead. But the second brother still got to see her and talk to her, didn’t he? He even lived with her for a while....”

He saw concern and something less easily definable in Hermione’s expression. Then, as she glanced at Ron, Draco realized that it was fear; he had scared her with his talk of living with dead people.

“So--that Peverell fellow, who’s buried in Godric’s Hollow,” he said hastily, trying to sound robustly sane for her sake. “You don’t know anything about him, then?”

“No,” she replied, looking relieved at the change of subject. “I looked him up after I saw the mark on his grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything important, I’m sure he’d be in one of our books. The only place I’ve managed to find the name ‘Peverell’ is Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. I borrowed it from Kreacher,” she explained when Ron raised his eyebrows. “It lists the pureblood families that are now extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells were one of the earliest families to vanish.”

“‘Extinct in the male line’?” Ron repeated.

“It means the name’s died out,” Hermione explained, “centuries ago in the case of the Peverells. They could still have descendants, though, they’d just be called something different.”

“Too many daughters, not enough sons…” And then it came to Draco in a shining blast of awareness, the memory that had stirred at the sound of the name  _ Peverell: _ a filthy old man brandishing an ugly ring in the face of a Ministry official. “Marvolo Gaunt!”

“Sorry?” Ron and Hermione asked together, both jumping slightly at his cry.

“Marvolo Gaunt!” Draco repeated. “Riddle’s grandfather! I saw him, in the Pensieve, with Dumbledore. Marvolo Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!” Ron and Hermione continued to look utterly bewildered. “The ring, the ring that became the Horcrux--Marvolo Gaunt said it had the Peverell coat of arms on it! I saw him waving it in the bloke from the Ministry’s face, he nearly shoved it up his nose!”

“The Peverell coat of arms?” Hermione asked sharply, finally catching up with his stream of thoughts. “Could you see what it looked like?”

“Not really, not properly,” Draco admitted, straining to remember. “There was nothing fancy on there, as far as I could see; maybe a few scratches. I only ever saw it really close up after it had been cracked open.” Draco saw Hermione’s comprehension in the sudden widening of her eyes. 

Ron was looking from one to the other, astonished. “Blimey...do you reckon it was this sign again? The sign of the Hallows?”

“Why not?” Draco asked, excitement coming back to him. Maybe Lovegood was off his rocker, but it did seem as if they’d potentially found the breakthrough that they’d been desperate for. “Marvolo Gaunt was an ignorant, racist old git who lived like a pig, all he cared about was his ancestry. If that ring had been passed down through the centuries, he might not have known what it really was. There were no books in that house, and trust me, he wasn’t the type to read fairy tales to his kids. He’d have loved to think the scratches on the stone were a coat of arms, because as far as he was concerned, having pure blood made you practically royal.”

“Yes...and that’s all very interesting,” Hermione agreed, cautiously. “But Draco, if you’re thinking what I think you’re think—”

“Well, why not? Why not?” Draco pressed, abandoning his careful approach and getting right to the core of his point. “It was a stone, wasn’t it?” He looked at Ron for support. “What if it was the Resurrection Stone?”

Ron’s mouth fell open. “Blimey—but would it still work if Dumbledore broke— ?”

“Work?  _ Work?  _ Ron, it never  _ worked!  _ There’s no such thing as a Resurrection Stone!” Hermione had leapt to her feet, looking exasperated and angry as she glared back and forth between them. “Draco, you’re trying to fit everything into the Hallows story—”

“Hermione, it fits on its own accord,” Draco countered; he did not like disagreeing with Hermione, not over anything, but he felt more and more certain with every word that he was getting this right. “I know the sign of the Deathly Hallows was on that stone! Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells! And Hermione, we have the ring. We can  _ check.” _

She spluttered, but still she reflexively reached out to pick up Riddle’s diary from the arm of her usual chair; when she opened the cover for him, Draco reached into it, lifting the destroyed ring from the hole left by the basilisk’s fang.

Draco’s imagination was racing ahead, far beyond Ron and Hermione’s. Three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor master of Death _...Master...Conqueror... Vanquisher...The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death... _

If he held the Hallows, when he finally faced Voldemort again--surely his Horcruxes would be no match? Was this the answer? Hallows versus Horcruxes? Was there a way, after all, to guarantee that Draco was the one who triumphed? If he were the master of the Deathly Hallows, would he be safe against even Voldemort himself?

“Draco?” But he scarcely heard Hermione. Pocketing the Gaunt ring, Draco pulled out the Invisibility Cloak, running it through his fingers and examining it thoughtfully. The cloth was supple as water, yet light as air. He had never seen anything to equal it in his nearly eighteen years in the Wizarding world. The Cloak was exactly what Xenophilius had described...a cloak that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it.

And then, with a start, he remembered something else vital. “—Dumbledore had this Cloak the night that Harry’s parents died.” His voice shook and he could feel the color in his face, but he did not care. “Ron, you told me that when Harry received it during first year, someone had gifted it to him with a note saying that James Potter had left it in their possession. Sirius once said something about wondering if having it would have saved them that night, but that Dumbledore had had it at the time.”

He held the Cloak up to their view. “This is why. He wanted to examine it, because he thought it was the third Hallow. And Ignotus Peverell is buried in Godric’s Hollow, we saw his tombstone....” Draco rose, now walking blindly around the tent, feeling as though great new vistas of truth were opening all around him. “I’d bet you good money that the Potters were descended from his line.”

He felt armed in certainty; certain in his newfound belief in the Hallows, as if the mere idea of possessing them was giving him protection, and he felt something oddly close to joy when he turned to look back at the other two again.

“Draco,” Hermione said softly; but he just shook his head. He  _ knew _ he was on the right track. Everything fit, everything...the Cloak, inherited from Harry who had received it from his father, was the third Hallow. And though there was no way to know if it would after having been destroyed--and having held a portion of Voldemort’s soul before that--they did have the second.

Then all he needed to do was find the first Hallow, the Elder Wand, and then—

But it was as though a curtain fell on a lit stage; all of Draco’s excitement, all his hope and happiness were extinguished at a stroke, and he stood alone in the darkness, and the glorious spell was broken.

“That’s what he’s after.” The change in his voice made Ron and Hermione look even more worried. “Riddle. He’s after the Elder Wand.” He turned back to them, sighing at their strained, incredulous faces. He knew it had to be the case.

Voldemort wanted to dominate the magical world, and subjugate the Muggle world beneath it. He wanted to be the most powerful being in existence--and if the Hallows were real, if he had come to know of them and believe them, then of course the Elder Wand would be the most important victory he could achieve. All three together making him Master of Death; certainly. But the wand, an unbeatable item that--in Riddle’s mind--would take him from immortal to absolutely invincible...of course that would appeal to him.

“This is it,” Draco said quietly. “This explains everything. The Deathly Hallows are real, and we’ve got one—two, if the stone still works. And Riddle is chasing after the third, but I don’t know if he realizes...he may just think it’s a powerful wand.”

Hermione looked utterly conflicted, torn between listening to his reasoning, and continuing to insist that none of it was possible. She looked to Ron, her face twisting uncertainly. “You don’t believe in all of this, do you?”

Ron hesitated, looking between his two best friends uneasily. He’d just seemingly regained Hermione’s trust--but Draco knew that Ron was seeing his logic, too. “I dunno...I mean...bits of it sort of fit together,” said Ron awkwardly. “But when you look at the whole thing...”

He took a deep breath, and then his expression settled. “I think we’re supposed to focus on getting rid of Horcruxes, Draco. That’s what Dumbledore told us to do. Maybe...maybe the Hallows business  _ is _ equally important, and maybe that will come into play, but...what Dumbledore focused on was destroying the pieces of You-Know-Who’s soul, right? So...if we stay on that path, maybe the rest will fit itself in. If it’s meant to.”

Draco had to admit, that didn’t sound completely unfounded. Hermione looked infinitely grateful at having even partial support. “Thank you, Ron,” she said tiredly. “I’ll take first watch.”

They packed up the tent next morning and moved on through a dreary shower of rain. The downpour pursued them to the coast, where they pitched the tent that night; it persisted through the week, over sodden landscapes that Draco found bleak and depressing. They alternated between discussing potential Horcrux locations, as they always had--there was nothing new to add to that conversation, but at least it filled the time--and also pondering who might have sent the silver doe to Draco in the woods, the night that Ron returned.

As the weeks crept on, Draco gradually began to notice that Ron seemed to be stepping up into becoming more of a leader than he ever had before, in the years that Draco had known him. Perhaps because he was determined to make up for having walked out on them; but Ron was the one now encouraging and exhorting the other two into action. “Three Horcruxes left,” he kept reiterating. “We need a plan of action, come on! Where haven’t we looked? Let’s go through it again. The orphanage...”

Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Riddle House, Borgin and Burkes, Albania, every place that they knew Tom Riddle had ever lived or worked, visited or murdered, Ron and Hermione raked over them again and again as they traveled and camped, with Draco joining in rather mechanically. He was half-worried that they’d descend back into the bitterness and bickering of their first months of wandering if they kept this up again--but Ron insisted on journeying to ever more unlikely places simply, simply to keep them moving.

“You never know,” was Ron’s constant refrain. “Upper Flagley is a Wizarding village, he might’ve wanted to live there. Let’s go and have a poke around.”

Unfortunately, these frequent forays into Wizarding territory brought them within occasional sight of Snatchers. “Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death Eaters,” Ron warned. “The lot that got me were a bit pathetic, but Bill reckons some of them are really dangerous. They said on Dragonwatch—”

“On what?” Draco asked, startled out of his thoughts as he worked on a simple supper for them.

“Dragonwatch, didn’t I tell you that’s what it was called? The radio program I keep trying to get to, the only one that tells the truth about what’s going on! Nearly all the programs are following You-Know-Who’s line, all except Dragonwatch. I really want you to hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in....”

Hermione looked up from her notes, eyebrows rising. “Why’d they pick that name?”

Ron smirked, nodding towards Draco as if to credit him. “The Order got the word out, nice and subtly, that us three are out on a mission from Dumbledore, and now they’re keeping everyone as updated as they can on how we’re doing, confirming that we’re still going, etc. So everyone who’s trustworthy is aware that it’s you and me, Hermione, and then also that we’ve got someone else with us, too...not everyone will realize it’s Draco, but if they think it through--”

“-it’s his name in Latin; they’re calling him the Dragon,” Hermione finished, laughing as well. “Oh, that’s delightful. I didn’t know if it’d make a difference, leaving the mark at Lovegood’s house, but it was worth trying--and apparently spot-on. You’re a proper hero now,” she added teasingly, winking at Draco, and he rolled his eyes fondly.

Still; he could deny that it was very comforting to know that they could find a source of real, accurate news--and that the Order knew that the three of them were out there, and still working for the cause.

Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch snatches of advice on how to treat dragon pox, and once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love.” While he tapped, Ron continued to try to hit on the correct password, muttering strings of random words under his breath. “They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he told them. “Bill had a real knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end....”

But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Draco was sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty, staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron shouted excitedly from inside the tent. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in here, Draco!”

Draco hurried back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione kneeling on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione, who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed, staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most familiar voice was issuing. “...apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”

“But that’s Lee Jordan!” Hermione gasped, looking delighted.

“I know!” Ron laughed, beaming at her astonished expression. “Cool, eh?”

“...now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee was saying. “And I’m pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!”

“Hi.” 

“Evening, River.”

“‘River,’ that’s Lee,” Ron explained in a whisper. “They’ve all got code names, but you can usually tell—”

“Shh, just let us listen!” Hermione murmured, grinning.

“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee went on, “Let’s take a moment to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don’t think are important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”

A sick, swooping sensation churned through Draco’s belly, and he, Ron, and Hermione gazed at one another in horror. “A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggleborn Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news.”

“Fuck,” Draco whispered. “They were so close to us that night--we could’ve helped--”

But he knew that wasn’t so. There had been nothing they could have done for their friends that night, and they’d have been helpless to save them later on.

Lee continued, his voice heavy. “Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities are attributing the deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse—more evidence, as if it were needed, of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational sport under the new regime.”

Hermione closed her eyes, shaking her head in soundless grief, and Draco reached over to squeeze her fingers tenderly.

“Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the news was shared very belatedly of Bathilda Bagshot passing away, in her home in Godric’s Hollow. Local word was that she passed several months ago, cause unknown, but the Prophet never mentioned this. Listeners, I’d like to invite you to join us in a minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters.”

Silence fell, and Draco, Ron, and Hermione did not speak. Half of Draco yearned to hear more, while half of him was afraid of what might come next. It was the first time he had felt fully connected to the outside world for a long time.

“Thank you,” Lee’s voice resumed after a moment. “And now we turn to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”

“Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice--deep, measured, reassuring, and infinitely welcome to their ears.

“Kingsley!” Hermione murmured, her eyes shining as Ron nodded happily.

“Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” Kingsley said gravely. “However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”

“And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be ‘Wizards first’?” Lee asked next.

“I’d say that it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to ‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’” Kingsley replied firmly. “We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.”

“Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess,” Lee promised, making Kingsley chuckle. “And now, over to Romulus and Orion for our popular feature ‘Flight Watch.’”

“Thanks, River,” came two more very familiar voices, speaking in sync; Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper. “We know it’s Remus and Sirius!”

“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that the Dragon and his companions are still alive, and on the move?”

“I do,” Remus replied firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that their deaths would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ may have been taken from us; but we know that those who were dearest to him at Hogwarts remain active, and a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”

“And what would you say to those individuals, if you knew that they were listening, Romulus?”

“I’d tell them to stay safe, and look out for each other,” Remus said gently, “And to follow their instincts. Those have kept them alive and safe thus far, and they’ve given the rest of us cause to continue hoping, believing, and fighting.”

Sirius spoke up then, sounding fondly amused. “I’d add that we’re with them in spirit. Romulus is right, too, about trusting their instincts--maybe the student’s surpassed the teacher, in that regard, eh?”

Remus chuckled in knowing agreement, and Draco looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears as she smiled back at him. Ron glanced at their faces, and then chuckled. “Oh, blimey, I completely forgot to tell you,” he said apologetically. “Yeah...Remus went right back home the night he came to see us at Grimmauld Place, just like he’d promised to. He said Tonks is getting pretty big, far as the baby’s concerned.”

“...and yes, word of a dragon sighting--just this past week, actually.” Remus and Sirius were concluding the ‘“Flight Watch” segment.

“Right! Excellent. Of course, and that brings us to the next update, regarding those Dragon watchers who are suffering the most for their allegiance,” Lee prompted, and Remus sighed heavily.

“Indeed. Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, the erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” said Remus.

“At least he’s still alive!” Ron murmured, and Hermione and Draco both nodded fervently in agreement.

“We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid—” All three of them gasped, and so nearly missed the rest of the sentence. “—well-known gamekeeper and professor at Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to have hosted a ‘Dragon’ party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.”

“I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, if you’ve got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?” Lee asked jokingly.

“It would tend to give you an edge,” Remus agreed, mock-gravely. “May I just add that while we here at Dragonwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge even the most devoted of the Dragon’s supporters against following Hagrid’s lead. ‘Dragon’ parties are unwise in the present climate.”

“Even if they are genuinely hosted by magical creature-lovers and are about actual flying, fire-breathing lizards. Bit risky, given the times and social climate,” Sirius chipped in, making everyone laugh in wry agreement.

“Indeed they are, Romulus,” Lee confirmed, “So we suggest that you continue to show your devotion to our heroes on the run by listening to Dragonwatch! And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive that scaly beast. We like to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new correspondent: Rodent.”

“‘Rodent’?” protested yet another familiar voice, and Draco, Ron, and Hermione cried out together: “Fred!”

“I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’!”

“Oh, all right then.  _ ‘Rapier,’  _ could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”

“Yes, River, I can,” Fred replied. “As our listeners will know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.”

“Which suits him, of course,” Kingsley noted. “The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself.”

“Agreed,” Fred confirmed. “So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.”

For the first time in weeks and weeks, Draco was genuinely laughing. He could feel the weight of months’ worth of tension leaving him. “And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” Lee asked, also chortling.

“Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?” asked Fred. “Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than Niffler who’s spotted a bag of Galleons, so don’t count on him being a long way away if you’re planning on taking any risks. I never thought I’d hear myself say it--but safety first!”

“Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,” Lee concluded. “Listeners, that brings us to the end of another Dragonwatch. We don’t know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ And hell, if we can get  _ that _ old charmer to join us for a chat, we absolutely will. Keep each other safe: Keep faith. Good night.”

The radio’s dial twirled and the lights behind the tuning panel went out. Draco, Ron, and Hermione were still beaming. Hearing familiar, friendly voices was an extraordinary tonic; Draco had become so used to their isolation he had nearly forgotten that other people were also resisting Voldemort. It was like waking from a long sleep.

“Good, eh?” Ron asked happily.

“It’s brilliant,” Draco agreed. “And I love what they’ve named it. I love the Dragon motif.” He could not stop grinning. “I’m glad that people know that there’s someone else involved in the fight--they can’t know who I really am, not yet, but it takes some of the heat off of you two. This--this is incredible. I’ll never be able to thank them all enough.”

“It’s so brave of them,” Hermione agreed, sighing admiringly. “If they were ever found...”

“Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” Ron reminded her, grinning. “Like us. We’re all fugitives, more or less, now.”

“True. Though, I can’t help but think about what Fred said,” Hermione remarked, looking seculative as she meandered back over to her usual armchair. “People spreading rumors that he’s abroad, I mean. The thing is, when the same rumor is heard from multiple starting points--no matter the minor changes between reports, there’s usually some foundation of truth to it.” Her brow furrowed, eyes getting a rather faraway look to them. “So why would people think that he’s traveling...if he wasn’t tracking something with a varied and global history?”

Draco looked at her in surprise, not having expected Hermione to be the one to initiate bringing the Hallows back into conversation. “Wait--Hermione, you do you mean, you think--”

“I think...I think maybe I do,” she admitted, wide-eyed. “I don’t know if he  _ is _ abroad or not, but--well, it might prove your point--it could mean that he’s actively looking for it, right now. I think maybe you’re right, that Volde—”

_ “‘Mione, no!” _

“—mort’s trying to find the Elder Wand.”

“The name’s Taboo!” Ron snarled, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounded outside the tent. “I told you, I explained why we can’t say it anymore—we’ve got to put the protection back around us—quickly—it’s how they find—”

But Ron stopped talking, and Draco did not need to ask why. The Sneakoscope on the table had lit up and began to spin; they could hear voices coming nearer and nearer, rough and excited. Ron pulled the Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked it: their lamps went out.

“Come out of there with your hands up!” came a rasping voice through the darkness. “We know you’re in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care who we curse!”

Draco sucked in breath, looking around at the other two, now mere outlines in the darkness.

He saw Hermione reaching out--not toward the tent flap, but for Draco. Her fingers closed over his wrist and she forcibly moved his hand; Draco felt the hard shape of the glamour charm beneath his shirt. At the same time, her other hand grabbed his wand from the table where he’d left it, and Draco blinked as he saw her stuff it into her beaded purse.

Clenching his hand, he whispered the spell quickly just as heavy footsteps reached the tent, and the front flap was ripped open. Draco felt the familiar ripple of change pass over his body, just a hand suddenly closed around his shirt collar, dragging him bodily out of the tent.

“Get up, vermin.” Unknown hands haul him roughly across the ground into the woods. Before he could stop them, someone had rummaged through his pockets, finding them empty and grunting dismissively as they continued yanking him about. Twisting against his captor’s hold, Draco cursed when he spotted four or five more people wrestling Ron and Hermione outside too.

The sound of Hermione’s voice, choking on sounds of pain as she was so brutally manhandled, made Draco’s vision turn red. “Get—off—of her!” he snarled; he was wandless, but still Draco tried to lash out, swinging his arm and relishing the sound and feeling of his knuckles hitting flesh. Distantly Ron’s voice rang out, then broke off with a grunt of pain; Hermione screamed, and Draco thrashed against his captor again. “No! Leave her alone, leave them alone!”

“Your girlfriend’s going to have worse than that done if she’s on my list,” said the hulking black shadow that was hauling Hermione over to where Draco was being pinned. Horror and revulsion made him nearly retch as Draco released that it was Fenrir fucking Greyback who was gripping Hermione by the back of her neck. Judging by her pale face, she realized this, as well. “Delicious girl...What a treat...I do enjoy the softness of the skin....”

Draco wanted to vomit. “Don’t touch her,” he snarled, forcing himself to actually look at Greyback.

His former tormentor merely barked an ugly, animalistic laugh. “Search the tent!” he ordered in a snarl.

He was thrown face-down onto the ground; a thud told him that Ron had been cast down beside him. They could hear footsteps and crashes; the men were pushing over chairs inside the tent as they searched for anything of value.

“Now, then, let’s see who we’ve got,” Greyback’s gloating voice rasped from over their heads, and Draco, first, was rolled over onto his back. A beam of wandlight fell into his face, making him wince and squint, and Greyback laughed. “My, my, I’m lucking into a  _ feast _ tonight--you’re just as pretty as the girly is...two tasty treats for me, yum...”

A shudder ran down Draco’s entire body as the werewolf caressed one snaggled claw down his cheek; his hand reeked of blood and sweat. “What’s your name?” Greyback purred. Draco glared back up at him, sealing his lips tightly.

He wasn’t expecting the punch, and Draco yelped as pain lanced through his jaw; somewhere to his side, Hermione screamed out, begging them not to hurt him.  _ Fuck, _ if he resisted, Greyback might just hurt her instead. “J-James,” he choked out, spitting some blood from the blow.

“And your first name?” Greyback growled. Draco blinked rapidly, not having anticipated that they’d assume he automatically gave his surname. His mind shorted out, but he did not want to be punched again, or risk either of the others being injured to make him talk. “I--Thomas. Thomas James.”

“Check the list, Scabior,” Greyback ordered over his shoulder, and Draco heard another of the Snatchers move away as Greyback turned his pointed, haggard face to look down at Ron next. “And what about you, ginger, what’re you called? Not as pretty as your friends, but might still be a good snack...”

“Stan Shunpike,” Ron choked out.

“Like ’ell you are,” said the man called Scabior from somewhere just out of Draco’s line of sight. “We know Stan Shunpike, ’e’s put a bit of work our way.” There was another thud; Greyback had boxed Ron’s ear.

“I’b Bardy,” Ron gasped now, and Draco could tell that his mouth was full of blood. “Bardy Weadley.”

“A Weasley?” Greyback echoed, chuckling grotesquely. “So you’re related to blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood. And lastly, your prettiest little friend...”

The relish in his voice made Draco’s flesh crawl, and despite himself, tears squeezed in the corners of his eyes. His nightmares of the werewolf were cruel enough; to hear him anywhere near Hermione, to know that his sick, lusting eyes were on her, made Draco want to die where he lay. There was nothing he could do physically, and yet still he tried to lunge sideways, snarling a curse; another shadow moved forward, and a boot came down hard on his chest, forcing Draco back onto the ground.

Greyback cackled, hunching over Hermione and trailing one finger down her jaw and throat, disturbingly close to the collar of her shirt. “Look at ‘ow riled Jamesy gets there, guess I was right, eh? That your boyfriend, sweetheart? Wonder what it’d take to make ‘im share...”

“Easy, Greyback,” Scabior called out irritably, even as the other Snatchers jeered. Draco wanted to murder every one of them.

“Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet...we’ll see if she’s a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barney, here. Who are you, girly?”

“Penelope Clearwater,” Hermione whimpered; she sounded terrified, but convincing enough.

“What’s your blood status?”

“Half-blood,” Hermione whispered.

“Easy enough to check,” Scabior remarked. “But the ’ole lot of ’em look like they could still be ’ogwarts age—”

“We’b lebt,” Ron gurgled out. “Got scared, ran away--”

“Left, ’ave you, ginger?” Scabior mocked. “And you decided to go camping? And you thought, just for a laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”

“Nod a laugh,” Ron replied hastily. “Aggiden.”

“Accident?” There was more jeering laughter from all around them. “You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s name, Weasley?” Greyback growled, moving back from Hermione to loom over Ron. “The Order of the Phoenix. Mean anything to you?”

“Doh.”

“Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members have been tracked that way. We’ll see. Bind them up with the other two prisoners!”

Someone yanked Draco up by the hair, dragged him a short way and then pushing him down into a sitting position before they started binding him back-to-back with several other people. Draco was still a little blinded after having the wand-light right in his eyes, and he blinked repeatedly and desperately, trying to regain his sight.

When at last the man tying them had walked away, Draco whispered to the other prisoners. “Anyone still got a wand?”

“No,” Ron and Hermione both whispered, one on either side of him. “This is all my fault,” Hermione added miserably. “I said the name, I’m so sorry—”

“Hermione?” It was a new, but familiar, voice, and it came from directly behind Draco, from the person tied to Hermione’s left.

_ “Dean?” _

“It is you! Oh, fuck--if they find out who they’ve got—! They’re Snatchers, they’re only looking for truants to sell for gold—”

“Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback was saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots marched close by Draco, and they heard more crashes from inside the tent. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and three truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?” he roared out.

“Yeah. There’s no Thomas James on ’ere, Greyback.”

“Interesting,” Greyback said, low and musingly. “That’s interesting.”

He crouched down in front of Draco again, who now more clearly saw the familiar face, covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, with pointed brown teeth and sores at the corners of his mouth. Greyback smelled just as he always had, a scent ingrained into Draco’s mind as one that meant death and pain. The werewolf reeked of dirt, sweat, and blood. “So you aren’t wanted, then, James? Or are you on that list under a different name? What House were you in at Hogwarts?”

“Slytherin,” Draco said promptly. How lovely that just once, the truth would be a good thing for him.

“Funny ’ow they all thinks we wants to ’ear that,” jeered Scabior out of the shadows, making the others laugh in sycophantic agreement. “But none of ’em can tell us where the common room is.”

“It’s in the dungeons,” Draco replied clearly, forcing himself to look up in Scabior’s direction, as if he was not terrified out of his wits. “You enter through a wall, made of stone and lined with some skulls. It’s under the lake, so the lighting’s all green. A portrait of Slytherin hangs over the main fireplace. You can see the merfolk and other creatures through the windows. Some people learn sign language in order to communicate with them.”

There was a short pause. “Well, well, looks like we really ’ave caught a little Slytherin,” Scabior said. “Good for you, James, ’cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who’s your father?”

“He works at the Ministry,” Draco said; it was more or less true, so he sounded convincing enough. His whole story would collapse with the smallest investigation, since he could hardly claim Lucius and he had no allies named James in the Ministry, but every minute they stalled successfully was a minute longer that they survived. “Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

“You know what, Greyback,” Scabior said. “I think there is a James in there.”

Draco could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck, get them safely out of this?

“Well, well,” Greyback muttered again, and now Draco could hear the tiniest note of trepidation in that callous voice; he knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had indeed just attacked and bound the son of a Ministry official. Draco’s heart began pounding harder against the ropes around his ribs; he would not have been surprised to know that Greyback could see it. “If you’re telling the truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry. I expect your father’ll reward us just for picking you up.”

“But,” Draco managed, his mouth bone dry, “If you just let us—”

“Hey!” There came a shout from inside the tent. “Look at this, Greyback!” A dark figure came bustling toward them, and Draco saw a glint of silver in the light of their wands. They had found Gryffindor’s sword.

“Ve-e-ry nice,” Greyback drew out appreciatively, taking it from his companion. “Oh, very nice indeed. Looks goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like this?”

“It’s my father’s,” Draco lied at once, hoping against hope that it was too dark for Greyback to see the name etched just below the hilt. “We borrowed it to cut firewood—”

“’Ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the Prophet!”

Scabior came back over, and his wandlight cast a wide enough circle that Draco could see the page of the newspaper that he was holding out for Greyback to see. “‘’ermione Granger,’” Scabior read aloud. “‘The Mudblood who is known to be traveling with the fugitive known as the Dragon.’”

_ Oh, fuck, no. Please, no. _

Draco’s stomach churned as he heard the creak of Greyback’s boots when he moved to crouch down in front of Hermione. “You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you.” 

“It isn’t! It isn’t me!” Hermione’s terrified squeak was as good as a confession, and Draco squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

“‘...known to be traveling with the Dragon,’” repeated Greyback quietly. A disturbing stillness had settled over the scene. Draco’s arm suddenly twinged with a sharp surge of stinging, itching pain; he struggled with all his strength against the urge to wince or even look at his arm.

“Well, this changes things, doesn’t it?” Greyback continued, barely above a murmur. Nobody else spoke: Draco sensed the gang of Snatchers watching, frozen, and he felt Hermione’s arm trembling against his. Greyback got up and took a couple of steps to where Ron sat, crouching down again to stare closely at him. “And you’re a Weasley...another one of Potter’s old mates. And we ain’t know for sure that that Weasley  _ is _ home dyin’...”

His eyes drifted lastly to Draco, and it was as if, for the first time, Draco could actually see the train of thought working through the werewolf’s warped mind. Greyback leaned toward him, examining his face as if seeking any familiar features.

Draco dropped his eyes.

“We’ve got the Mudblood who’s supposedly travelin’ with the Dragon,” Greyback growled, his breath foul in Draco’s nostrils as he leaned in disgustingly close to him. “And we ain’t got no clues otherwise ‘bout who this Dragon must be...”

“Don’t touch me,” Draco hissed; he could not stop himself; he thought he might be sick from the pain of the proximity.

Scabior spoke up, sounding shocked. “Greyback--you think this, this fuckin’  _ kid _ is the Dragon?” The other Snatchers all took several steps backward, as if stunned by the very prospect of this unintended success. Draco could think of nothing to say that would dissuade them. His glamour was only a physical disguise, and he could hardly backtrack and try to claim to be a Black--and even if he did, that wasn’t necessarily helpful, since they’d all know that Sirius Black was no ally of theirs--

They were still talking. “...to the Ministry?”

“To hell with the Ministry,” Greyback growled back. “They’ll take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who.”

“Will you summon ’im? ’ere?” Scabior asked, sounding awed and terrified.

“No,” Greyback snarled at once, “I haven’t got—they say he’s using the Malfoys’ place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.”

If he was not utterly terrified, Draco might have curled his lip derisively at Greyback over that near-slip of an admission; for all of his savagery and his groveling to be given even scraps of the Dark Lord’s approva, the werewolf might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to make use of him, but only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark. Greyback had not been granted this “highest honor.”

“...completely sure it’s him? ’Cause if it ain’t, Greyback, we’re dead if we turn up there and claim it.”

“Who’s in charge here?” Greyback roared, using sheer gusto to cover his moment of inadequacy. “I say that this boy’s the Dragon. Him plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along, any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get the girl thrown in!”

“Alright!” Scabior growled back, drowning out the sound of Draco’s muttered curse; he would sooner die than see Greyback get his paws or teeth on Hermione. “Alright, we’re in! And what about the rest of ’em, Greyback, what’ll we do with ’em? None of ‘em are as valuable.”

“Might as well take the lot. We’ve got two Mudbloods, that’s another ten Galleons. Give me the sword as well. If they’re rubies, that’s another small fortune right there.”

The prisoners were dragged to their feet. Draco could hear Hermione’s breathing, fast and terrified at his side. “Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do this’un!” Greyback ordered, seizing a fistful of Draco’s hair; he could feel the werewolf’s long yellow nails scratching his scalp, deep enough to tear skin. “On three! One—two—three—”

The group Disapparated, pulling the prisoners along with them. Draco struggled, trying to throw off Greyback’s hand, but it was hopeless: Ron and Hermione were squeezed tightly against him on either side, he could not separate from the Snatchers, and the breath was squeezed out of him--

The prisoners lurched into one another as they landed in a country lane. It took Draco’s eyes a moment to acclimatize, and then he saw the wrought-iron gates at the foot of a long, familiar drive. Draco’s heart squeezed at once with indescribable grief and fear, staring up past the gate to take in the looming black spanse of Malfoy Manor.

At his side, there was a coughing, choked-off sound of crying; Draco looked to his side, and his cut clenched when he saw the tears sliding down Hermione’s face. Somehow, her fear helped him focus. Cold, angry clarity washed over him, and Draco straightened his back, getting his feet under himself and making sure to provide what little support and stability he could for the others bound to him as Greyback hauled them towards the gate.

He did not know how he knew, but Draco was certain of one thing: Voldemort was not here yet. He was not presently in, and no one yet knew of their arrival who would have pressed their Dark Mark _ \--that  _ he would have known concretely, as his own arm would have burned with the call. How long

it would take Voldemort to get to this place, once he knew that his mysterious “Dragon” enemy was here, was another matter entirely.

One of the Snatchers strode to the gates and shook them, then looked back at Greyback with a curled lip. “How do we get in? They’re locked, Greyback, I can’t—blimey!” He whipped his hands away in fright.

The iron was contorting, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and coils into a frightening face, which spoke in a clanging, echoing voice: “State your purpose!” Draco had never actually seen that face this close-up; he knew the spells were there, it was essentially a perimeter-guard merged with a butler, but he’d never had to encounter it himself. His touch had always activated the gates to open, if he hadn’t Apparated or taken a Portkey directly into the Manor.

“We’ve got the Dragon,” Greyback snarled triumphantly. “We’ve captured the sodding Dragon that’s been causin’ the Dark Lord problems!”

The gates swung open. “Come on!” Greyback growled to his men, and the prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. A ghostly white shape drifted by overhead; Draco glanced upward, rolling his eyes when he spotted the albino peacock.  _ How those bloody things stayed alive.... _

He stumbled and was dragged back onto his feet by Greyback; now Draco was being forced to stagger along sideways, tied back-to-back to the four other prisoners. In the muddle of limbs, he felt Hermione’s hands clutching at his and Ron’s for any kind of comfort, and Draco clung to her right back--or both of their sakes.

Light spilled out of the house and washed over all of them. “What is this?” rang out a woman’s cold voice. Draco’s heart turned to ice inside of his chest.

“We’re here to see the Dark Lord!” Greyback rasped back.

“And who are you?”

“You know me!” There was resentment ringing in the werewolf ’s voice. “Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught the infamous Dragon!” Greyback seized Draco and dragged him around to face the light, which forced the other prisoners to shuffle around too; Hermione and Ron were no doubt both clearly visible on either side of Draco.

“I know ’e’s unfamiliar, ma’am, but we’re sure it’s ’im!” Scabior piped up. “Y’see this’un ’ere, see the girl? ‘S the Mudblood who’s been traveling around with ’im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ‘er--and the ginger, he’s the Weasley boy as was friends with Potter.”

Draco watched with raw agony stabbing through his heart as his own mother stared disinterestedly at his face, before accepting that they were correct and she did not know him. Her gaze went next to Ron, and then to Hermione; finally recognition sparked, and she raised her eyebrows, the only indication of emotion that she would show. There was annoyance, some pain--and some anger. It occurred to Draco that she might consider Harry Potter’s friends, given their ongoing resistance, to be partly responsible for Draco’s “loss.”

“Bring them inside,” she said quietly. Draco and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps and the grand foyer, lined with its golden detail and archaic portraits. “Follow me.”


	38. When the Shadows Descend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘Let us see if we can confirm that we do, in fact, have this Dragon in our midst...’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof.
> 
> Hope everyone is safe and healthy and staying home as much as they can!

Narcissa led them through the foyer and down the short hall, to the drawing room that Draco had never, ever wanted to return to again. It felt fitting that he was only doing so disguised, and heavily bound, finally able to stand openly with the people he was truly loyal to.

The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside. Draco blinked repeatedly until his eyes adjusted. Instinctively he looked toward the mantle, his emotions leaping all over the place when he spotted the fake glasses resting where he had left them resting at the base of the Triwizard Cup. They hadn’t been moved, which reassured him that no one had even an inkling that a switch had been made.

A lone figure rose from one of the chairs sitting in front of the ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers. “What is this?” Draco swallowed hard at hearing his father’s familiar, drawling voice; this must have been how so many other people in his life had felt, when Lucius Malfoy turned his cold eyes upon them.

“They say that they’ve captured the ‘Dragon,’” Narcissa said, her voice colder than Draco had ever heard it in his life. It was somehow devoid of emotion and dripping with hostility at the same time, and it made him hurt to his very core. After so many years of being called his mother’s “little dragon”, it almost felt like he had been kicked in the gut.

He could only imagine how she would feel if she learned the truth.

Through the chaos of the tied-together prisoners’ arms and hands pressing tightly together, Hermione’s fingers found his. Draco squeezed back gratefully, knowing that she sensed his pain as he faced his parents while seeing no recognition in their faces. That was necessary, but it did not make it any less painful to experience.

Lucius stepped forward, his eyes burning as he swept his gaze over them all. Draco knew that there was no chance that his father would not recognize Ron and Hermione. He might hate them, or feel Merlin-knew-what towards them, but he’d encountered them enough times--either with Harry or since his death, still defiantly staring Lucius down without fear--so when Lucius’ gaze swept dismissively over Draco’s glamoured face, the indifference there was almost more comforting than disturbing.

His father’s voice regained a little fervor, becoming more avid as he examined the group of prisoners. More than once he specifically eyed both Draco and Dean, and Draco had the fleeting thought that his father did not know the dark-skinned Gryffindor boy at all. The older man wasn’t actually aware of which person was being presented to him as the alleged Dragon. “Narcissa...if we are the ones who hand them over--the Dragon, and these, Potter’s friends--” His voice hardened mockingly over Harry’s name, as it always had, and it made Draco cringe inwardly. “--to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv—”

“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” Greyback interrupted, stepping forward menacingly. It took all of his strength for Draco not to flinch away, though his father showed no such fear--only contempt.

“Of course not, of course not!” Lucius snapped back impatiently. He approached Draco directly then, coming so close that Draco could see his father’s usually languid, pale face in far sharper detail than he had in years, having felt on edge and off-kilter around the older man ever since his eyes had been opened to the truth.

As Lucius stared him down right then, however, the fear struck him belatedly that Lucius would see his eyes--and he would  _ know. _ Their shape was changed, but the color--and no doubt the ferocity of his emotions behind them--was completely unaltered.

“We had better be certain, Lucius,” Narcissa called to her husband in her high, clear voice, and he looked away from Draco, distracted. “Completely sure that it is the so-called Dragon, before we summon the Dark Lord...do we have his wand? Grey--you, did you find his wand?” The disdain in her voice when she addressed Greyback was apparent, and Draco almost smiled despite himself. His mother didn’t even know just how deeply the werewolf deserved her dislike. If she did, he’d already be dead where he stood.

“No, ma’am.” It was Scabior who spoke up. “Took the other two’s--got ‘em here--but he didn’t have one on him.”

Both of Draco’s parents frowned at that, and Lucius looked at Draco coldly. “Where is your wand, boy?”

“Lost it,” he rasped back, doing his best to distort his voice while still answering promptly. He did not want anyone to hit anyone, as Greyback had when Draco hadn’t replied fast enough for his liking; but he also knew that his glamour did nothing to change his voice. He could not let his parents hear him speak more than a few words at a time, if even that.

“What about the Mudblood, then?” Greyback suddenly growled, as if he wanted to make sure that the Malfoys did not get distracted from the fact that he and his Snatcher gang were there. Draco was nearly thrown off his feet as they forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light fell directly on Hermione instead.

Greyback yanked at the ropes, cutting Hermione partially loose and dragging her forward without releasing any of the boys. He flung her onto the floor before Lucius and Narcissa, none of them even looking over when Draco snarled in protest and strained against his bonds, trying to reach her.

“This’un’s the Mudblood--the one what was best mates with Potter,” Greyback told them gleefully. “Wanted for travelin’ with this Dragon fella, sure--but weren’t she also involved, the night your boy died?” He jerked his head back towards where Ron was semi-visible at Draco’s other side. “‘Im, too--Potter’s mate, this is that same Weasley boy, in’t it?”

The temperature in the drawing room seemed to descend several degrees.

Draco watched his mother’s face close off, her eyes cold when she looked--not at Hermione or Ron--but at Greyback. He felt a trickle of relief at that; surely Narcissa did not possess the callous cruelty to torture teenagers out of her grief for her son.

Besides which, he was sure that Severus would have told them, at least privately, the version of Draco’s death in which Crabbe was responsible, having hurled him into Hagrid’s burning house...so his parents didn’t need to blame Hermione, who they hardly knew anything about, anyway.

Then the drawing room door opened behind them.

A woman spoke, and the sound of Bellatrix’s voice drove Draco’s fear to an even higher pitch; his aunt was on par with Greyback for making Draco feel genuinely crippled by his own terror, because the two of them were well-matched in their sadistic range. With both of them in the drawing room, he almost could not breathe, certain that death would come to someone he cared about at any moment.

“What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?” Bellatrix strode into the room and then slowed, picking her way around the prisoners, and she stopped on Draco’s right, staring at Hermione through her heavily lidded eyes. “But surely,” she said quietly, “this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?"

“Yes, yes, it’s Granger!” Lucius agreed, and Draco knew that his father hadn’t remotely recalled Hermione’s name before hearing it from his deranged sister-in-law. “And the redhead there, we think, the Weasley boy! Is he not? The Dragon and his friends, caught at last!”

“The Dragon?” Bellatrix asked sharply, and she backed away, the better to take in the boys still bound together. Her gaze skipped over Ron, taking Lucius’ identification of him at face value; she looked briefly at Dean, and then at Draco, and on him her gaze lingered. “Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!”

She dragged back her left sleeve: Draco saw the Dark Mark burned into the flesh of her arm, and he knew that she was about to touch it, to summon her beloved master—he sucked in air to brace himself, because he could not risk even the twitch of an eyelid that might make them realize that his own arm burned in response.

If they saw the Dark Mark on his skin, there was not a chance in hell that they wouldn’t quickly realize who he really was. And it would not be a sweet family reunion.

“I was about to call him!” Lucius snarled, and his hand actually closed upon Bellatrix’s wrist, preventing her from touching the Mark. “ _ I _ shall summon him, Bella, the Dragon has been brought to  _ my _ house, and it is therefore upon my authority—”

“Your  _ authority!” _ she sneered, attempting to wrench her hand from his grasp. “You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!”

“This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy—”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy,” Greyback interjected once again, “but it’s us that caught ‘em, and it’s us that’ll be claiming the gold—”

“Gold!” Bellatrix laughed maniacally, still attempting to throw off her brother-in-law, her free hand groping in her pocket for her wand. “Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the honor of his—of—”

She stopped struggling, her dark eyes fixed upon something Draco could not see. He wondered what she might have finished that sentence with--the honor of Voldemort’s love? His praise? What did she possibly think that the monster would grant her, even if she was the one to deliver his most persistent enemy to him? If Draco did not loathe his aunt so deeply, or know that there wasn’t a redeemable aspect to her being, he might have pitied her for her one-sided devotion to Riddle.

Jubilant at her capitulation, Lucius threw her hand from him and ripped up his own sleeve—Draco locked down every muscle in his body--

_ “Stop!”  _ Bellatrix shrieked, and everyone in the room winced at the sharp cry. “Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!”

Lucius froze, his index finger hovering over his own Mark. Bellatrix strode out of Draco’s limited line of vision. “What is that?” he heard her demand.

“Sword,” an out-of-sight Snatcher grunted back.

“Give it to me.”

“It’s not yorn, missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.”

There was a bang and a flash of red light: Draco knew that the Snatcher had been Stunned. There was a roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his wand. “What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?”

“Stupefy!” she screamed. “Stupefy!”

They were no match for her, even though there were four of them against one of her; she was a witch with prodigious skill and no conscience. The Snatchers almost  _ did _ deserve sympathy for attempting to fight back. They all fell where they stood--all except Greyback, who was instead forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched before him. Out of the corners of his eyes Draco saw Bellatrix bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword of Gryffindor gripped tightly in her hand, her face waxen.

“Where did you get this sword?” she whispered to Greyback as she pulled his wand out of his unresisting grip. Despite the lowered volume of her voice, her words continued to be clearly audible throughout the entire room.

“How dare you?” he snarled at her, his mouth the only thing that could move as he was forced to gaze up at her. He bared his pointed teeth. “Release me, woman!”

“Where did you find this sword?” she repeated, brandishing it in his face. “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!”

Where she lay on the floor before the fire, Draco saw Hermione’s body go unnaturally still for a heartbeat before she relaxed, so as to not draw attention. The same shock had coursed through his own body; at his back, he felt Ron’s hand spasm against his, and Draco jerked his head in a nod to indicate his understanding. That was one hugely significant question answered--but how did it play into the mess in which the sword had been swapped for a fake?

“It was in their tent,” Greyback growled. “Release me, I say!"

She waved her wand, and the werewolf sprang to his feet, but he now appeared too wary to approach her. He prowled behind an armchair, his filthy curved nails clutching its back and flexing to tear silently at the fabric, his only act of retaliation.

“Lucius--move this scum outside,” Bellatrix said dismissively, indicating the unconscious men. “If you haven’t got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me."

“Don’t you dare order Lucius about in our own—” Narcissa began furiously, but Bellatrix cut her off with another shriek.

“Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!” She stood there, panting slightly, looking down at the sword, examining its hilt closely. Draco felt his gut clench; would she recognize the difference between the real sword and a replica?

Then she turned to look at the silent prisoners, her eyes scanning them hungrily. “If the Dragon is indeed among these, then he must not be harmed,” she muttered, more to herself than to the others. “The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of that pest himself....But if he finds out...I must...I must know....”

She turned back to her sister again. “The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!”

“This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my—”

“Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!” Bellatrix snapped. She looked frightening, mad; a thin stream of fire issued from her wand and burned a hole in the carpet. Narcissa hesitated for a moment, and then she appeared to compose herself, locking her emotions securely back inside of herself as only the pureblood elite could, even in such grim circumstances. Turning, Narcissa addressed the werewolf.

“Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.”

“Wait,” Bellatrix said sharply, twisting back to stare at the bound boys again. “All except...except for that one.” Draco stilled as she pointed at him, seemingly making her choice between the two unknown males. “Hold a moment. Let us see if we can confirm that we do, in fact, have this  _ Dragon _ in our midst...”

Striding towards him as the others were pulled away, Bellatrix grabbed his ropes and cut through them quickly before thrusting him up against the wall. It nearly knocked the wind out of him, causing him to fall to his knees. Hermione made a wounded noise of terror, but no one paid her any mind.

As she leaned in towards him, Draco could smell her perfume. “What is your name?” Bellatrix demanded. “Your real name, not whatever alias you gave those oafs.”

Draco swallowed. “James Black,” he replied, keeping his voice a bit raspy in an effort to keep it disguised. It wasn’t like he talked much in front of Bellatrix, but his mother was still in the room, and he knew she would recognize his voice if he spoke too much.

Bellatrix’s eyes bulged. “Don’t fool me boy, I am from the Noble House of Black, and there was never a James in our family tree.”

“Disowned branch,” he shot back.

At that, she sneered a little. “Ah, so you’re from one of the dirty little blood traitors that was struck off of the tree, eh? Why am I not surprised? There always seemed to be a bad apple or two every other generation.” She smirked over at Narcissa, who kept herself at a distance, clearly uncomfortable with everything going on but keeping her posture perfect as always. “At least  _ we _ come from the good bunch, don’t we Cissy? We know our true value.”

“What value?” The words flew out before Draco could stop them, and everything in the room went still. Hermione’s eyes widened, and even Ron looked stunned, while Bellatrix slowly turned her face to glare at him, keeping Draco rooted to the spot.

“What did you just say?” she hissed.

“You heard me.” Draco could feel his hands trembling, his whole body felt like it would shake apart--but he tried to keep still, tried to hold tight to that bravery he had been feeling for a while now. Trying to emulate Harry Potter in any given situation. “I don’t see much value in people like you. I think my branch is the better one. At least I see people as people, and I don’t treat others as lesser than just because of blood status.”

The slap was coming, and he knew it was coming, but it still caught him by surprise. His face stung something fierce as he was all but thrown to the floor, with Bellatrix looking enraged. “Where did you get this sword?” she demanded furiously.

“Found it in the woods,” he grit out.

“Do not lie to me boy!”

“I’m telling the truth!”

She moved then, and Hermione gasped, and that was all the warning he got before the dreaded curse fell from her lips.  _ “Crucio!” _

Draco never thought he would have felt something that was worse than Sectumsempra. That curse had literally ripped apart his skin and muscles, made him bleed almost to death in a matter of minutes, and the echoing pain from his scars still haunted him some days, when his mood turned sour and his mind was plagued with nightmares.

But the Cruciatus Curse was definitely the winner for the agony it caused. It felt like he was being burned alive from the inside out, while his body contorted with all of his muscles spasming and twitching so hard that it rippled through his body in a never-ending wave of pain. He screamed, unable to stop himself, unable to draw in breath to beg for it to stop.

_ “No!”  _ Hermione’s voice broke through the haze. “Stop it, please, stop! Don’t hurt him!”

The pain stopped momentarily, leaving Draco trembling on the floor, eyes filled with tears that he tried desperately not to let fall. Bellatrix turned her attention to Hermione then, glaring at the girl with such contempt in her eyes it was terrifying. “Not until I know how you got into my vault!” she snapped.

“W-we found it i-in t-th-the woods,” Draco choked out. “I swear to you.”

Another jolt from the Cruciatus Curse ripped through his body, and Hermione let out an agonized wail. “Stop it, I swear, we don’t know anything about your vault!”

Finally Bellatrix lifted the curse again, glaring at Hermione. Then, slowly, her eyes traveled to Draco still on the floor, before she took out a knife from her dress and she walked over to where Hermione lay huddled. Ever so gently, she lifted the knife, sliding the flat side of the blade against her cheek, causing Hermione to go rigid.

“You have been a thorn in our side for quite some time, Mudblood,” she said softly, voice dripping like ice. “You should have been dead by now.”

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Draco wheezed, adrenaline coursing through his body as he tried to sit up. “You leave her alone, or I’ll kill you!”

And that, it seemed, had confirmed something for Bellatrix, for her red lips stretched into quite an evil smile, one that sent a cold sensation down Draco’s back. “Take the boys,” she ordered Greyback, “And throw them into the cellar. I think I need some one-on-one girl time.”

“No!” Draco gasped, trying again to get his limbs under himself; he made to crawl towards Hermione, but Greyback pounced at once, forcing him back to the floor. “You can have me, keep me! Hurt  _ me!”  _ Draco groaned, fighting pointlessly against the weight of the werewolf’s fucking paw pinning his chest.

Bellatrix curled her lip derisively at him, clearly delighting in successfully finding a bond to exploit through torture. “Don’t worry, little Black, If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” she snapped. “Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book--Dragon or not, you’re nothing but scum. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them—yet.” She threw Greyback’s wand back to him, then dragged Hermione by her hair into the middle of the room. “We’ll see how long this one can last.”

Greyback gave a sick grunt of pleasure, and Draco knew that it would not be the first time that he was permitted to finish off a victim who had been reduced to “uselessness,” by Bellatrix’s standards, whether by her wand or her blade.

To Draco’s surprise, Narcissa spoke up again. Her voice sounded very odd; the others all looked to her, finding her watching Hermione in her sister’s grip with a strangely closed-off look on her face. “Surely there is no need for all of this, Bella. We could simply--”

Bellatrix cut her off coldly. “Cissy, dear, don’t tell me that you’re about to intervene on behalf of a  _ Mudblood.” _

Narcissa twitched slightly in response; Draco had no idea what his mother intended to do. But Bellatrix clearly did not want to find out; she cursed harshly and flicked her wand, sending her sister flying out of the drawing room and closing the door behind her, the lock snapping resoundingly into its slot.

Draco jerked, shocked at seeing such violence between the sisters. Fleetingly he thought that if Lucius hadn’t been outside disposing of the Snatchers, Bellatrix might have just provoked him to a duel to the death for that move.

He grunted as Greyback forced the bound-together boys all onto their feet--a flick of his wand reattached Draco to Ron and Dean, the ropes burning over his skin as they wound tightly into place. They shuffled awkwardly across the drawing room to another door, into a dark passageway; Greyback held his wand out in front of him, projecting an invisible and irresistible force that drove them forward.

“Reckon she’ll let me have a bit of the girl when she’s finished with her?” Greyback crooned into his ear as he forced them along the corridor. “I’d say I’ll get a bite or two, wouldn’t you, Dragon? She does look so tasty...as I’m sure you could tell me...”

Draco grit his teeth so hard that he felt them cracking together; he was shaking. He refused to give the werewolf the satisfaction of seeing the depth of fear and anger that his taunts were triggering.

They were forced down a steep flight of stairs, still tied back-to-back and in danger of slipping and breaking their necks at any moment. At the bottom was a heavy door; Draco knew this space, but had not been anywhere near this cellar since long before Voldemort had laid claim to the Manor.

This had been where he kept the defected Death Eaters while they were tortured, before being executed. The closest Draco had come to it in that time had been the night that he found his father standing guard, and Draco had realized that Lucius had no intention of speaking up against the Dark Lord’s cruelty or violence.

This cellar felt, to Draco, like the place where his childhood had gone to die.

Greyback unlocked it with a tap of his wand, then forced them into the dank and musty space and left them in total darkness. The echoing bang of the slammed cellar door had not died away before there was a terrible, drawn-out scream from directly above them.

_ “No--Hermione!”  _ Draco snarled, and despite knowing distantly that he  _ needed _ to remain calm, to be level-headed and do his part to help Ron and Dean and to get them all out of here in order to get back up there in order to save Hermione, he could not help his panic; he started to writhe and struggle against the ropes tying them together, hard enough that Ron and Dean staggered.

“Draco--Draco please--” Ron sounded choked as Draco’s thrashing made his body jerk back and forth beyond his control. “ _ Stop _ , please, h-help me think!”

_ “Hermione!” _

“We need a plan, stop yelling—we need to get these ropes off—”

“Ron?” came a whisper through the darkness. “Draco? Is that you?”

Draco stopped shouting, and all three of them went still. There was a sound of movement close by them, and then Draco saw a shadow moving closer. “Draco? Ron?”

“Luna?”

“Yes, it’s me! Oh no, I didn’t want you to be caught!”

“Luna, can you help us get these ropes off?” Ron asked, shifting so she could see by their clumsy movements that they were all bound together.

“Oh yes, I expect so....there’s an old nail we use if we need to break anything...just a moment...”

Again Hermione screamed overhead, and now they could hear Bellatrix screaming too, but her words were inaudible.

“Mr. Ollivander?” Draco could hear Luna saying, and he bit his tongue so hard it nearly bled as he struggled not to continue wasting his energy shouting Hermione’s name. “Mr. Ollivander, have you got the nail? If you just move over a little bit...I think it was beside the water jug....” She was back within seconds. “You’ll need to stay still a moment,” she told them. Draco could feel her digging at the rope’s tough fibers to work the knots free.

From upstairs they heard Bellatrix’s voice, and finally her words became clearer. “I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?”

“We found it _ —we found it—please!”  _ Hermione screamed again; Draco couldn’t stop himself from yanking impatiently, and the rusty nail slipped against his wrist. “Draco, please stay still!” Luna whispered. “I can’t see what I’m doing—”

“My pocket!” Ron gasped to her. “In my pocket, there’s a Deluminator, and it’s full of light!”

A few seconds later, there was a click, and the luminescent spheres the Deluminator had sucked from the lamps in the tent flew into the cellar. Unable to rejoin their original sources, they simply hung there, like tiny suns, flooding the underground room with light.

Now Draco saw Luna, face pale and eyes enormous and luminous, and the motionless figure of Ollivander the wandmaker, curled up on the floor in the corner. Craning around, he caught sight of the other prisoners he’d been bound to: Dean and Griphook the goblin, who seemed barely conscious, kept standing only by the ropes that bound him to the humans.

“Oh, that’s much easier, thanks, Ron,” Luna said, and she began hacking at their bindings again, more quickly now that she could see. “Hello, Dean! I’m sorry that you were caught, too..."

From above came Bellatrix’s voice again. “You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell me the truth!” Another terrible scream—“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”

“There!” Draco felt the ropes fall away and he turned, rubbing his wrists, to rush back to the door of the cellar, looking up at the low ceiling, searching for any kind of exit or escape that he already knew perfectly well would not be there.

Dean, his face bruised and bloody, muttere “Thanks” to Luna and then stood there, shivering; but Griphook sank onto the cellar floor, looking groggy and disoriented, many welts across his swarthy face. Ron kicked the ropes aside, then moved toward Draco, joining him in scanning the walls and ceiling for any signs of weakness in the structure.

“There’s no way out,” Luna told them, watching their fruitless efforts. “The cellar is completely escape-proof. I tried, at first. Mr. Ollivander has been here for a long time, he’s tried everything.”

Hermione was screaming again. The sound went through Draco like physical pain, far worse than enduring the Cruciatus Curse himself. Barely conscious of the lingering aches in his own body, he continued probing around the cellar, feeling the walls for he hardly knew what, knowing in his heart that it was useless. He may never have been a prisoner in this makeshift dungeon before now, himself, but he knew that it had been fortified to be impenetrable and inescapable for those who Voldemort wanted trapped.

“What else did you take, what else? Answer me!  _ Crucio!” _

Hermione’s screams echoed off the walls upstairs. Draco heard himself almost sobbing as he pounded the walls with his fists,  _ needing _ to reach her, to protect her.

Abruptly Ron caught Draco by his wrist, startling the blonde. Ron ignored his impatient attempt to yank away from Ron, and the redhead reached into his inside jacket pocket. To Draco’s surprise--and relief, of  _ course,  _ how had he forgotten?--Ron yanked out the wrapped shape of Sirius’ mirror and held it up; there was a flash of color in it, a fleeting glimpse of intense grey eyes staring back at them. “Help us--we’re in the cellar at Malfoy Manor, please help us!”

The eye blinked and was gone. Ron and Draco stared at one another, not entirely sure that they’d actually seen it--but then upstairs, Hermione was screaming worse than ever.

“How did you get into my vault?” they heard Bellatrix scream yet again. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?”

“We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobbed back. “We’ve never been inside your vault....It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!”

“A copy?” Bellatrix screeched. “Oh, a likely story!”

“But we can find out easily!” came Lucius’s voice, hard and furious. Draco sucked in breath, wondering if his father really was standing there, mercilessly and unashamedly allowing a teenage girl to be tortured so viciously right in front of him. Or was his rage because his wife had been so crassly hurled from her own drawing room? If so, why was he still in there with his insane sister-in-law?

“Wormtail!” Bellatrix’s voice dripped condescension and disdain, and Draco blinked, startled at the news that the squirrely little traitor was now here in the Manor, no longer at Spinner’s End with Severus. “Go--fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!” Bellatrix continued imperiously, and then there was scuffling footsteps crossing overhead, coming towards the cellar stairs.

Draco dashed across the cellar to where Griphook was huddled on the floor. “Griphook,” he whispered into the goblin’s pointed ear frantically. “You must tell them that sword’s a fake, they mustn’t know it’s the real one, Griphook,  _ please—” _

He could hear someone descending the steps; the next moment, Peter Pettigrew’s squeaky, shaking voice spoke from behind the door. “Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don’t try anything, or I’ll kill you!”

The prisoners did as they were bidden; as the lock turned, Ron clicked the Deluminator and the lights whisked back into his pocket, restoring the cellar’s darkness. The door flew open and Wormtail marched inside, wand held out in front of him, face pale and sweaty. He seized the little goblin by the arm and backed out again, dragging Griphook with him and not looking back at the others.

The door slammed shut again, and at the same moment a loud crack echoed inside the cellar. Ron clicked the Deluminator; the three balls of light flew back into the air from his pocket, revealing Dobby the house elf, who had just Apparated into their midst.

_ “Dob— !” _ Draco’s hand flung out, striking Ron on the arm to stop him shouting, and Ron looked terrified at his mistake. Footsteps stalked away from them, overhead: Wormtail marching Griphook to Bellatrix. No one had heard the crack, or the near-slip of Ron shouting his name.

Dobby’s enormous, tennis-ball-sized eyes were wide; he was trembling from his feet to the tips of his ears. He was back in the home of his abusive former masters, Draco aside, and it was clear that he was petrified. “Master Ron,” he squeaked in the tiniest quiver of a voice, “Dobby has come to rescue you.”

“But how did you—?”

An awful scream drowned out Draco’s question as Bellatrix resumed torturing Hermione. Draco flinched and cut to the essentials. “You can Disapparate out of this cellar?” he asked Dobby, who nodded, his ears flapping.

Somewhere in his head, Draco heard Hermione’s voice, scorning Tom Riddle for not realizing that Kreacher would be able to escape his cave trap because he forever underestimated the scope of house elf magic. It seemed that the builders of Malfoy Manor hadn’t been any wiser. “And you can take humans with you?” he went on. Dobby nodded again. “Right. Dobby, I want you to grab Luna, Dean, and Mr. Ollivander, and take them—take them to—”

“Bill and Fleur’s,” Ron cut in quickly. “Shell Cottage on the outskirts of Tinworth!”

The elf nodded for the third time. “And then come back,” Draco added. “Can you do that for me, Dobby?”

“Of course, sir,” whispered the little elf. He hurried over to Mr. Ollivander, who appeared to be barely conscious. He took one of the wandmaker’s hands in his own, then held out the other to Luna and Dean, neither of whom moved.

“But Draco, we want to help you!” Luna protested.

“Yeah, we can’t just leave you here,” Dean agreed. “What about Dumbledore’s Arm--”

“Go, both of you! We’ll see you at Bill and Fleur’s.” As Draco spoke, his left arm burned and he sucked in a shocked breath, fearing that Bellatrix had pressed her Mark. But it was not that severe of a pain, not yet. “Go, we’ll follow, just _ go!” _

Unwillingly, they obeyed and caught hold of the elf ’s outstretched fingers. There was another loud crack, and Dobby, Luna, Dean, and Ollivander vanished.

“What was that?” Lucius snapped from over their heads.“Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar?” Draco and Ron stared at each other.  _ Shite.  _ “Wormtail! Go back down and check!"

Once more, footsteps echoed across the room overhead, and then there was silence. Draco knew that the people in the drawing room were listening for more noises from the cellar and waiting for the report.

“We’re going to have to try and tackle him,” he whispered to Ron. They had no choice: the moment that Wormtail entered the room and saw the absence of three prisoners, they’d be lost. Pettigrew was too great of a coward, he would not hesitate to shout for help. “Leave the lights on,” Draco added; as they heard the small man descending the steps outside the door, they backed against the wall on either side of it.

“Stand back!” came Wormtail’s voice. “Stand away from the door. I am coming in.” Once more, the cellar door flew open. For a split second Wormtail gazed stupidly into the apparently empty cellar, ablaze with light from the three miniature suns floating in midair, blinking in confusion.

Then Draco and Ron launched themselves upon him. Ron seized Wormtail’s wand arm and forced it upward; Draco slapped a hand over his mouth, muffling his voice before he could cry out a warning. Silently the three men struggled: Wormtail’s wand emitted sparks that struck the stone floor harmlessly. His silver hand closed around Draco’s throat.

“What is it, Wormtail?” Lucius called from above, sounding annoyed at the delay.

“Nothing!” Ron called back, in a passable imitation of Wormtail’s wheezing voice. “All fine!” 

Draco could barely breathe; he could no longer focus on muting Wormtail with his palm. The inhuman silver fingers were constricting, faster and harder, and his own scrabbling hands could not match their strength. He hissed, trying to form words, trying to utter Wormtail’s name--he was not begging, this creature did not deserve any such sign of weakness; but Draco was not going to die like this, at the hands of Peter fucking Pettigrew.  _ “Wormta--” _

The watery-eyed bastard stared back up at him, and Draco saw the split second that recognition sparked as Wormtail stared back into grey eyes that he had known for years upon years. “Ma-Master Draco....?”

The silver fingers slackened. Draco had not expected it, but he took immediate advantage, wrenching himself free. He saw the ratlike man’s small beady eyes widen with fear and surprise. He seemed just as shocked as Draco was at what his hand had done, at the tiny, merciful impulse it had betrayed, and he continued to struggle more powerfully, as though to undo that moment of weakness.

“And we’ll have that,” Ron grunted, tugging Wormtail’s wand from his other hand. Wandless, helpless, Pettigrew’s pupils dilated in terror. His eyes had slid from Draco’s face to something else; his own silver fingers were moving inexorably toward his own throat.

“Oh no--” Ron stopped when he realized what was happening, but when he stepped forward to try and help, Draco threw his arm out to stop him. “Draco, he’s--”

“I know exactly what’s happening.” Together they watched as the silver hand that Voldemort had given his most cowardly servant turned upon it’s disarmed and useless owner. Silver strong fingers grabbed Pettigrew’s throat, squeezing hard, reaping the reward for his hesitation and moment of pity.

“We can’t just let him die!” Ron protested quietly, looking to Draco with worry in his eyes.

Draco said nothing, glaring down at Pettigrew as he hit the floor, writhing and struggling to free himself from the hand’s own tight grip. “And what’s the alternative? He helped kill Harry, remember? Frankly, I don’t think he deserves anything less.”

Ron stared at Draco like he had never seen him before in his life; it seemed that, for the first time in several years, the redhead was reminded strongly where Draco came from, and just what he was truly capable of. Then, slowly, he turned his head to watch Pettigrew as he struggled, body going weaker as his face turned colors, the lack of oxygen finally overwhelming him.

“P’ease,” he wheezed, his one last thing he could draw enough breath for.

“‘Please?’” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “And just why should we help you? You stood by and let the son of your supposed best friends be tortured to death. He begged for his life, and you did nothing. And nothing is what you deserve.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “If there is a Hell, I hope you rot there.”

Hermione gave a dreadful scream from overhead. Wormtail’s eyes rolled upward in his purple face; he gave a last twitch, and then at last he was still.

Draco and Ron looked at each other for only a moment. Then, reaching a wordless agreement, they left Wormtail’s body on the floor behind them and ran up the stairs and back into the shadowy passageway leading to the drawing room. Cautiously they crept along until they reached the drawing room door, which stood ajar.

From there, they had a clear view of Bellatrix where she stood looking down at Griphook, who was holding Gryffindor’s sword in his long-fingered hands. Hermione was lying at Bellatrix’s feet, barely stirring. Draco stared at her intently, not even breathing--only when he saw the faintest shift of her chest rising and falling with breath did he turn his gaze back to his aunt.

As long as Hermione was still alive, then he could find the strength to continue. And he would save her.

“Well?” Bellatrix snapped at Griphook. “Is it the true sword?”

Draco waited, huddled just beyond the doorway without so much as twitching, feeling his arm prickle and itch as he waited with baited breath to hear if the goblin would do as he’d begged of him, and protect them all.

“No,” Griphook said after a terrifyingly long pause. “It is a fake.”

“Are you _ sure?”  _ Bellatrix panted. “Quite sure?”

“Yes,” the goblin murmured.

Relief broke across Bellatrix’s face, all tension draining from it; Draco knew that it was a good thing that Griphook had done, but still, seeing pleasure on his aunt’s face was disturbing to the core. “Good,” she hissed, and with a casual flick of her wand she slashed another deep cut into the goblin’s face, and he dropped with a yell at her feet.

She kicked him aside, no longer concerned by him. “And now,” she said in a voice that burst with triumph, “We call the Dark Lord!” And she pushed back her sleeve, and touched her forefinger to the Dark Mark.

At once, Draco’s arm felt as though it was splitting open as the burn of a Death Eater’s call burst out across all distances, alerting every man and woman bearing the Mark that someone was requesting their Master’s presence. Draco felt Voldemort’s wrath; he was enraged at the summons he felt—he had warned them, he had told them to summon him for nothing less than this Dragon character. If they were mistaken...

“And I think,” Bellatrix went on, “We can dispose of the Mudblood now. Greyback, take her if you want her.”

Again, Draco saw scarlet; he would sooner reveal himself and let Riddle fucking kill him here, in his childhood home, than allow the werewolf to lay a single claw on the woman Draco loved.

He snarled a curse, and with Ron at his side, he burst into the drawing room. He didn’t know if the Gryffindor would have agreed with him that it was the right moment to move, but he was clearly not about to try and stop Draco. And the blonde needed his backup, here more than ever; he knew that Ron would not let him down.

Bellatrix looked around, shocked at the interruption, turning her wand on them instead— 

“Expelliarmus!” Ron roared, pointing Wormtail’s stolen wand at Bellatrix, and hers flew into the air for Draco to catch. Lucius and Greyback both wheeled about; without hesitation, Draco yelled, “Stupefy!” and his father collapsed unconscious onto the hearth.

Jets of light flew in all directions as Greyback, the last one with a wand, dueled Ron; Draco was forced away from charging at his aunt as he threw himself to the floor, rolling behind a sofa to avoid a stray curse from the werewolf.

_ “Stop, or she dies!” _

Panting hard, Draco twisted to peer around the edge of the sofa; Bellatrix was supporting Hermione, who seemed to be unconscious, and was holding her short silver knife to Hermione’s throat. “Drop your wands,” she whispered. “Drop them, or we’ll see exactly how filthy her blood is!”

Ron stood rigidly, clutching Wormtail’s wand and staring at the witch with raw hatred on his face. Draco straightened up slowly, still holding Bellatrix’s, his chest heaving as he watched the silver blade press against Hermione’s throat.

“I said, drop them!” she screeched, pressing the blade harder against Hermione’s throat: Draco saw beads of blood appear there as the skin broke beneath the unrelenting steel.

“All right!” he snarled, and he dropped Bellatrix’s wand onto the floor at his feet. Ron did the same with Wormtail’s, once more following Draco’s lead. Both men raised their hands to shoulder height to indicate their surrender.

“Good!” Bellatrix leered. “Greyback--pick those up!” Her eyes locked onto Draco’s face, empty of any human warmth, cold and heartless. “The Dark Lord is coming for you, Dragon. Your death approaches--and with it, the end of your petty resistance against the Dark Lord.”

She couldn’t know it, but Draco was well-aware of Voldemort’s approach; his arm was burning with the pain of it, so agonizing that it once more stunned him that the Mark wasn’t blazing visibly through his damned shirt sleeve.

Draco could see no way out of this.

“Now,” said Bellatrix softly, as Greyback skulked forward to snatch up the wands, then hurried back to her, handing hers over and pocketing Wormtail’s. “Cissy!” The far door opened, and Narcissa stepped back inside; Draco wondered if she had stood there the entire time, listening to the things her sister was doing and unable to intervene through the locked door.

“I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood,” Bellatrix purred. “I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight.” The werewolf let out a rumbling growl of appreciation. Draco’s hands spasmed as he forced himself not to lunge forward; his aunt’s smug expression told him that she could see--and reveled in--his rage at the way that Greyback stalked closer to Hermione’s slumped figure.

And then, in the pause, there came a peculiar grinding noise from above. All of them looked upward in time to see the crystal chandelier tremble; then, with a creak and an ominous jingling, it began to fall.

Bellatrix was directly beneath it; dropping Hermione, she threw herself aside with a scream. The chandelier crashed to the floor in an explosion of crystal and chains, falling on top of Hermione and the goblin, who still clutched the sword of Gryffindor. Glittering shards of crystal flew in all directions.

As Ron ran to pull Hermione out of the wreckage, Draco leapt over one of the fallen armchairs, wrestling Ron, Hermione, and Wormtail’s wands from Greyback’s grip. He pointed both of them at Greyback and yelled, “Stupefy!” The werewolf was lifted off his feet by the double spell, flew up to the ceiling, and then smashed to the ground.

A glint of purple caught Draco’s eye--the beaded bag, lying where Hermione had been sprawled on the ground as she was tortured. He seized it, but there was no time to Summon his own wand from within its depths; he’d simply use Hermione’s until they were clear.

As Narcissa staggered out of the way of further harm, Bellatrix sprang back to her feet, her hair flying as she brandished the silver knife at the two boys, seemingly forgetting her wand in her other hand. Narcissa startled, however, and directed her wand toward the doorway.

“Dobby!” she gasped, and even Bellatrix froze, her gaze swinging to follow her sister’s. “You! You dropped the chandelier—?”

The tiny elf trotted into the room, his shaking finger pointing at his former mistresses. “You must not hurt Harry Potter’s friends,” he squeaked, and despite his visible terror, there was such determination in his little voice that Draco could have wept with pride for the elf.

“Kill him, Cissy!” Bellatrix snarled--but there was another loud crack, and Narcissa’s wand, too, flew into the air and landed on the other side of the room. “You dirty little monkey!” Bellatrix bawled. “How dare you take a witch’s wand, how dare you defy your masters?”

“Dobby has no master!” the elf squealed back at her. “Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save _ his friends!” _

Draco’s arm surged with pain, nearly blinding him; dimly he knew that they had moments, perhaps only seconds before Voldemort was with them. “Ron, catch—and  _ go _ !” he yelled, throwing the ginger’s wand to him; Draco bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier.

As his head lowered, the spell that Bellatrix had fired at him struck the mirror over the mantle instead of him, then rebounded back towards Draco. He heard a sharp crack, similar to Disapparation, but the spell seemed to have missed him. And then Dobby was right there, reaching for their hands.

Draco saw Ron look over at him, and his eyes widened in sudden horror; even as he supported Hermione’s weight and Dobby grabbed for one of her limp hands, Ron reached the other out towards Draco. He grabbed the blonde’s shoulder, almost painfully, and yanked at him so that he stumbled, twisting to try stay on his feet--he did not want to hurt Griphook worse than he already was if they both hit the floor--and subsequently turning his back on his mother and aunt.

Hoisting the groaning goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one shoulder, Draco seized Dobby’s other hand, feeling himself being yanked into the dark spinning vortex of Disapparation.

As he turned into darkness he caught one last view of the drawing room--his mother’s pale, frozen face, and Bellatrix, staring directly back at Draco with a most peculiar expression of rage and bewilderment on her features--

\--the streak of red that was Ron’s hair, and a blur of flying silver, as Bellatrix’s knife flew across the room at the place where they were vanishing—

_ Bill and Fleur’s...Shell Cottage...Bill and Fleur’s... _

He had disappeared into the unknown, something that Draco had never done and had no idea if it was even possible; all that he could do was repeat the name of the destination and hope that it would suffice to take him there, or that Dobby had control over their traveling.

The pain in his arm was piercing now, and the weight of the goblin bore down upon him. He could feel the blade of Gryffindor’s sword bumping against his back; Dobby’s hand jerked in his, and Draco hoped that the elf  _ was _ trying to take charge, to pull them in the right direction--he tried, by squeezing the fingers, to indicate that that was fine with him.

And then they hit solid earth, and he smelled salty air. Draco dropped to his knees at once, relinquished Dobby’s hand, and attempted to lower Griphook to the ground as gently as possible. “Are you all right?” he asked hoarsely as the goblin stirred, but Griphook merely whimpered.

Draco raised his head, squinting around through the faint light; the sun was coming up over the dunes on the nearby beach. There seemed to be a cottage a short way away under the wide, still starry sky, and he thought he saw movement outside it, coming towards them. “Dobby, is this Shell Cottage?” he whispered, clutching Hermione’s wand and the beaded bag, ready to fight if he needed to. “Have we come to the right place? Dobby?”

He looked around. The little elf stood feet from him.

_ “Dobby!” _

The elf swayed slightly, stars reflected in his wide, shining eyes as he took a few small, staggering steps forward. Together, he and Draco looked down at the silver hilt of the knife protruding from the elf ’s heaving chest.

“Dobby—fuck,  _ no—help!”  _ Draco screamed toward the cottage, toward the people moving there.  _ “Help me!”  _ He did not know or care whether they were wizards or Muggles, friends or foes; all he cared about was that a dark stain was spreading across Dobby’s front, and that he had stretched out his thin arms toward Draco with a look of supplication. Draco caught him gently, and laid him sideways on the cool, damp sand.

“Dobby, no, don’t die, don’t die—don’t leave me--”

The elf ’s eyes found him again, and his lips trembled with the effort to form words. Through the tears suddenly filling his vision, Draco thought he saw a smile curling at Dobby’s mouth as he gazed up at the young wizard. “Master...Master Draco...”

And then with a little shudder the elf became quite still, and his eyes were nothing more than great glassy orbs, sprinkled with light from the stars they could not see.

Gradually, shaking hard, Draco realized that there were people gathering around him: Bill, Fleur, Dean, and Luna. “Wh-where is Hermione?” Draco heard himself ask, his voice so low and hoarse he almost didn’t recognize it. Pity he couldn’t have managed to sound that different back in the Manor.

“Ron’s got her inside the cottage,” Bill murmured back. “She’s fine, Draco. I mean--she’s going to be perfectly okay.” He swallowed hard. “Come on. Bring...bring him in, as well, Draco.”

His fingers shaking, Draco removed the knife from Dobby’s chest. Without a word, he pulled his own jacket off, then wrapped it carefully, tenderly around the little elf’s petite frame. Dean moved forward to very carefully, respectfully lift Griphook up, and turned to carry him towards the cottage with Fleur close behind him.

“Draco?” He looked up again, blinking slowly as he tore his eyes from Dobby’s still face. Bill was gazing down at him, his kind eyes filled with pity and understanding; he reached out, placing one hand gently on Draco’s shoulder. “We...we could bury him first, if you like. Our garden’s lovely, there’s plenty of good spots.”

Draco felt his neck move, nodding his head without telling himself to make the movement. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.” He looked back down at the tiny body he was cradling, and underneath Dobby’s small head, his left forearm burned hotter than before. Draco did not have to wonder; he knew, without being there to see it or having any idea how bad the damage was, that Voldemort was punishing those they had just left behind at Malfoy Manor.

His rage was dreadful and it made Draco’s arm feel as if it might be severed right from his body; and yet Draco’s grief for Dobby seemed to diminish it, so that it became a distant storm that reached him from across a vast, silent ocean. He did not care in the slightest that Voldemort was there, or that he was angry with the Malfoys.

“I want to do it properly,” were the first words that he actually registered himself speaking; he looked up, finding Bill still standing above him, waiting until he was ready. “Not by magic. Do you have a spade?”

The older man nodded, and Draco rose, following him on legs that were far steadier than he’d expected, back towards the little cottage that was beginning to glow as the sun breached the eastern horizon. And shortly afterward Draco set to work, alone, digging the grave in the place that Bill had shown him at the end of the garden, between two flowering bushes.

“You were always my favorite.” He didn’t know why he started talking to the little wrapped body of the brave little house elf, but the words came pouring out, and for once he let his once talkative self take over, if only to help ease some of the pain in his chest.

“Even among the other elves in the Manor, all of you lovely...you were the best elf of them all. I’m so sorry for not being able to save you whenever Father got angry. I’m so sorry for not being there when you needed me to be. You never asked for anything but your freedom, and tried as I might I just…I couldn’t. I failed you.” He smiled bitterly. “And then Harry saved you. I never got to thank him for that.”

He dug with a kind of fury, relishing the manual work, glorying in the non-magic of it, for every drop of his sweat and every blister felt like a gift to the elf who had saved their lives. His arm continued burning; but Draco was master of the pain. He felt it, certainly, and yet he was apart from it. In this moment, in the depth of his grief and his anger--over the war, the losses, the fact that even the most innocent and fragile of lives could be snuffed out meaninglessly--Draco was untouchable, out of reach from the Dark Mark and the Death Eaters and their savagery.

“I don’t know what we did to deserve you,” he went on. “You’ve been such a big help to us all. You were amazing. I hope the other elves started to get ideas when you started working at Hogwarts. I’ll help Hermione with S.P.E.W. if we make it out of this mess.” A few tears slid free, and he impatiently wiped them away, not minding the smudges of dirt he added to the mess on his face. “Dobby the Free Elf Campaign. Sounds right. Sounds good. Just like you.”

On Draco dug, deeper and deeper into the hard, cold earth, subsuming his grief in sweat, ignoring the pain in his arm as it grew dull, and abated; Voldemort had taken out his wrath. In the soft rising morning light, with nothing but the sound of his own breath and the rushing sea to keep him company, the things that had happened at the Manor returned to him, the things he had heard came back to him, and the steady rhythm of his arms beat time with his thoughts.

_ Hallows...Horcruxes...Hallows...Horcruxes... _

Draco no longer felt any kind of intense longing over the prospect of the Hallows. Loss and fear had snuffed it all out: He felt as though he had been slapped awake again.

Deeper and deeper Draco sank into the grave he was digging. He thought of Wormtail, dead because of one small unconscious impulse of mercy...Dumbledore had foreseen that....Draco lost track of time. He only knew that the night had transitioned fully into a bright, promising morning, breezy and not too cold, when he was rejoined by Ron and Dean.

“How’s Hermione?” He did not slow in his efforts.

“Better,” Ron replied. “Fleur’s looking after her now.” Draco had his retort ready for when they asked him why he had not simply created a perfect grave with his wand; but he did not need it. The Gryffindor men jumped down into the hole he had made with spades of their own, and together they worked in silence until the hole seemed deep enough.

Climbing out of it, Draco wrapped the elf more snugly in his jacket. Ron sat on the edge of the grave and stripped off his shoes and socks, which he placed upon the elf ’s bare feet; Dean produced a woolen hat, which Draco placed carefully upon Dobby’s head, muffling his batlike ears.

“We should close his eyes.” Draco had not heard the others coming out of the cottage. Bill was wearing a traveling cloak, Fleur a large white apron, from the pocket of which protruded a bottle of what Draco vaguely recognized to be Skele-Gro.

Hermione was wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown, pale and unsteady on her feet; when she reached them, Fleur put out her arm, and Hermione accepted it gratefully. She watched Draco as he finished dressing Dobby and then leaned back to let Luna move closer; the Ravenclaw girl crouched down and placed her fingers tenderly upon each of the elf’s eyelids, sliding them closed over his glassy stare.

“There,” she said softly. “Now he could just be sleeping.”

Draco placed the elf into the grave, arranging his tiny limbs so that he truly might have just been resting, then climbed out and gazed for the last time upon the little body.

He forced himself not to break down as he remembered watching Dumbledore’s funeral from a distance--and the rows and rows of golden chairs, and the Minister of Magic in the front row, the recitation of Dumbledore’s achievements, the stateliness of the white marble tomb. Dobby deserved just as grand a funeral, and yet here the elf lay, between scraggly bushes in a rough, hand-dug hole.

“I think we ought to say something,” Luna piped up again softly. “I’ll go first, shall I?” And as everybody looked at her, she addressed the dead elf at the bottom of the grave. “Thank you so much, Dobby, for rescuing me from that cellar. It’s so unfair that you had to die, when you were so good and brave. I’ll always remember what you did for us. I hope you’re happy and safe now.”

She turned and looked expectantly at Ron, who cleared his throat and said in a thick voice, “Yeah...thanks, Dobby.”

“Thanks,” Dean muttered in echo.

Draco swallowed. “Good-bye, Dobby,” he said, his voice too rough to be called more than a murmur. It was all he could manage; but Luna had said it all for him. Bill raised his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose up into the air and fell neatly upon it, forming a small, tiny red mound.

“D’you mind if I stay here a moment?” he asked the others. They murmured words he did not catch; he felt gentle pats upon his back, and then they all traipsed back toward the cottage--all but Hermione. He had known that she would stay.

She stepped closer, and reached out; he took her hand, holding on just as tightly as she did. Draco looked around, seeing a number of large white stones, all smoothed by the sea, that marked the edge of the flower beds. Picking up one of the largest, Draco laid it, pillowlike, over the place where Dobby’s head now rested.

He reached for his pocket and found it empty. Before confusion could hit, Hermione was pressing his wand back into his hand; she had brought it to him from the beaded bag.

Slowly, under his murmured instruction, deep cuts appeared upon the rock’s surface. He knew that Hermione could have done it more neatly, and probably more quickly, but he wanted to mark the spot himself just as he had wanted to dig the grave. When Draco stood up again, the stone read:

_ HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.  _

Draco straightened up again, and returned to her side. Hermione leaned against him at once, and Draco placed his arm around her waist, kissing the top of her hair as he examined the marks he’d made.

“Dobby, he...he knew that it was me,” Draco said suddenly, remembering. He heard Hermione draw a shaky breath. “Just before he--he looked up at me and said my name. He recognized me.”

Hermione reached out, lifting the chain that hung around his neck. For the first time since she’d put his hand on it back in the tent, during the night when the Snatchers had found them, Draco looked down; to his shock, he now saw that the little silver pendant that contained the glamour charm was shattered.

He hadn’t even registered that he’d turned back into his normal self. He was too used to the change only occurring if he intentionally said the terminating spell.

Now he knew why Ron had looked so horrified right before Dobby had gotten them out of there, why he had yanked at Draco so hard--to shield him with his own body. Bellatrix’s last curse must have rebounded and destroyed the charm; he had been changing back to his true appearance. That definitely would have shocked quite a few people, if Ron had not thought so fast on his feet.

Hermione swayed slightly on her feet, and her eyelids fluttered with weariness. Putting his arm back around her for support, Draco turned away from the grave, leading her back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO ONE ON VOLDEMORT'S SIDE KNOWS THAT DRACO IS ALIVE AND IS THE DRAGON. I REPEAT, NO ONE ON VOLDEMORT'S SIDE KNOWS THAT DRACO IS ALIVE AND IS THE DRAGON.
> 
> Re-read the chapter if you must guys, but Draco averted his gaze as much as possible, he disguised his voice and his glamour did not shatter until moments before Ron grabbed him as Dobby was stealing them away from the Manor. _At best_ we can say that Bellatrix has a suspicion that the Dragon used a disguise of some sort, but she _does not know_ that the Dragon is Draco. No one does, except the Order members.
> 
> Draco's identity remains safe, I promise.


	39. [A Note from the Authors]

To our faithful readers,

I do hope, first of all, that you are all staying safe, practicing social distancing, keeping clean and keeping your spirits up. This is a very scary time period for us right now, and I don't want anyone to hurt themselves or get sick unnecessarily. We'll all get through this together!

Now. I have something to add. As happy as I am that many are enjoying this story as is, I have been noticing quite a LOT of comments saying that this fic is basically a rip off of the series using Draco in place of Harry. So congrats! You noticed. You want a gold star?

We tried, guys. And we're still trying. But at the end of the day, the story is basically the same, just giving Draco a proper ass redemption arc. There's PLENTY of original content within this fic, mixed with the canon, and I LIKE it this way. MINX likes it this way. Above everything and anything, we started writing and posting this fic FOR US. This is our guilty pleasure fanfiction, this is our special project, the first one we've ever worked on together, and I feel immensely proud of all the hard work we poured into it, all the scenes we fixed, all the characters we decided to save, and the romance happening naturally between Draco and Hermione. It was all a convoluted idea for Dramione good-ness, alright?

If the fact that this fic ends up having more canon than original content upsets you, just stop reading. Don't comment, don't kudos, just exit out of the fic. It's not that hard of a thing to do. It's incredibly easy actually! See that little "x" on the tab? Just click it. Wow! Story is gone! Amaze! It's a miracle!

Do I sound spiteful? Yes. Am I bothered? Yes, and no. I appreciate the readers who are genuinely liking this story, canon scenes aside. I thrive on the people who are loving this fic just as much as Minx and I have. I love you all and I see you, and I wish you nothing but the best, and I send good vibes whenever I can.

But as for the rest of y'all, who leave passive aggressive comments, or straight up hate? Leave. We don't want you here.

It's fanfic. At the end of the day, it's a guilty pleasure shipping fueled fanfic. Just leave it alone.

To end this on a happier note, to anyone still interested, Minx and I do plan a spin off for Iron Sky, chapters and drabbles that will take place in the years between the Final Battle of Hogwarts, and the Epilogue. THAT, I promise, will be full of original content, to see what happens with Draco, Ron, Hermione and the rest once the war is over and won. Right now we're taking a break since finishing the drafts for Iron Sky, but once we get ideas and a good flow going, we'll start posting again, so keep an eye out! It'll be as much an adventure for us as it will be for you, I promise.

-xoxo, Hardy

P.S. Minx here. I'm a fairly passive/non-confrontational person, while Hardy is my little lady knight. Snark aside--she's a sass queen <3 --I understand her feelings. AO3 is a sanctuary for us fan-folk. If you're not enjoying the work, that is completely okay...but negative reactions to it aren't healthy to you or to us. Let's keep fanfic a positive, healthy, happy place to escape from reality in the bliss of storytelling!

-lots of love, Minx


	40. A Place of Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Are you saying there’s a Horcrux in the Lestranges’ vault?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless gratitude to the positive feedback and kindness that we received following the authorial letter after last week's chapter. <3

When Draco and Hermione entered the house, they found everyone all sitting in the living room just off of the little front hall. Bill stood before the handsome stone fireplace, talking quietly while the others listened. It was a pretty room, warmly-colored and open to the natural light as the day began; driftwood burned merrily in the hearth.

Draco stopped at the doorway, not wanting to interrupt--and also not wanting to track his muddy boots into the room. Hermione moved to sit down on the small loveseat beside Luna, who reached over to take her hand gently as Bill spoke.

“...lucky that Ginny’s on holiday. If she’d been at Hogwarts, they could have taken her before we reached her. Now we know she’s safe too.” He looked over at Draco, nodding at him. “I’ve been getting the family out of the Burrow,” he explained. “Moved them to Muriel’s. The Death Eaters know Ron’s with you now, they’re bound to target the family—don’t you apologize,” he added at the sight of Draco’s expression spasming. “It was always just a matter of time, Dad’s been saying so for months. We’re the biggest blood traitor family there is.”

“How are they protected?” Draco asked softly. It was surreal to realize that everyone in the room at present had stakes in the safety of the Weasley family--those who weren’t blood-related still loved them dearly. Dean was an ex of Ginny’s and a friend of all, and Luna was Ginny’s current girlfriend.

“Fidelius Charm,” Bill replied. “Dad’s Secret-Keeper. And we’ve done it on this cottage too; I’m Secret-Keeper here. None of us can go to work, but that’s hardly the most important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we’ll move them to Muriel’s too. There isn’t much room here, but she’s got plenty for everyone. Griphook’s legs are on the mend, Fleur’s given him Skele-Gro; we could probably move them in an hour or—”

“No,” Draco interrupted, and Bill looked startled. “I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It’s important.” He heard the authority in his own voice, the conviction, the sense of purpose that had come to him as he had dug Dobby’s grave. All of their faces were turned toward him, looking puzzled at his adamance. “I’m going to wash off,” Draco added, looking down at his hands, which were still covered in mud and Dobby’s blood. “Then I’ll need to see them both, straightaway.”

He walked into the little kitchen, to the basin beneath a window overlooking the sea. The day was bright and beautiful now, the sky shell pink and faintly gold along the coastline.

As he washed, Draco had the distracted thought--Ron had remembered one of their greatest assets when he himself hadn’t. He had to assume that somehow, it had been Sirius who had sent Dobby to them; it wouldn’t be so far-fetched, if he’d been somewhere where he could summon the elf and then instruct him to go find them in the cellar of Malfoy Manor.

But if it had been Sirius, then he was no doubt wondering why Dobby never returned to assure him that they’d gotten out alright. And not knowing where or how safe Sirius was, Draco didn’t dare try to send him word.

Draco dried his hands, silently observing the beauty of the scene outside the window and listening distractedly to the murmuring of the others in the sitting room. He looked out over the ocean and felt closer, this dawn, than ever before--closer to the heart of it all. His arm burned and prickled, and he knew that Riddle was getting there too.

He felt as if he understood and yet did not understand. His instincts were telling him one thing, and his brain quite another.

Looking down at his clean hands, Draco was momentarily surprised to see the cloth he was still holding in them. He set it down and returned to the hall. Bill and Fleur were standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for him. “I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander,” Draco said quietly as he joined them.

“No,” Fleur replied, looking concerned. “You will ’ave to wait, Draco. Zey are both ill, tired—”

“I’m sorry,” he said without heat, wanting to be polite. “But it can’t wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately—and separately. It’s very urgent.”

“Draco, what the hell’s going on?” Bill asked. “You turn up here with a dead house elf and a half-conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she’s been tortured, and Ron’s just refused to tell me anything—”

“We can’t tell you what we’re doing,” Draco told him flatly. “You’re in the Order, Bill, you know that Dumbledore left us a mission. We’re not supposed to talk about it to anyone else.” Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look at her; he was staring back at Draco. His deeply scarred face was impossible to read for a moment.

Finally Bill relented. “All right. Who do you want to talk to first?” he asked, and Fleur muttered in French before retreating towards the kitchen.

“Je sais que tu ne voulais pas dire ça personnellement,” Draco called after her, and Fleur started; he heard her laugh despite herself as she disappeared through the doorway.

Draco debated how to answer Bill, knowing what hung on his decision. There was hardly any time left; now was the moment to decide:  _ Horcruxes or Hallows? _

“Griphook,” he said at last, and the decision was made. “I’ll speak to Griphook first.” His heart was racing as if he had been sprinting and had just cleared an enormous obstacle. “Up here, then,” Bill said, leading the way. Draco started to follow them, then paused, looking back.

“I need you two as well!” he called to Ron and Hermione, who had been hovering, half-concealed, in the doorway of the sitting room. They both moved into the light, looking relieved that he wasn’t planning on doing this alone and just updating them afterward. “Are you feeling strong enough?” he added in a love voice to Hermione. “You were amazing, love—coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that—if you need to rest first, I understand.”

Hermione just gave him a weak smile as Ron gave her a one-armed hug, nodding. “We need to keep moving,” she replied simply.”

“What are we doing now, Draco?” he asked, glancing up towards Bill, who was waiting for them and trying not to appear to be listening.

“You’ll see. Come on.” Draco, Ron, and Hermione followed Bill up the steep stairs onto a small landing.

Three doors led off it. “This one,” Bill indicated, opening the door into his and Fleur’s room. It too had a view of the sea, now flecked with gold in the sunlight over the water. Draco moved to the window, turned his back on the spectacular view, and waited, his arms folded, arm still stinging dully. Hermione took the chair beside the dressing table; Ron sat on the arm beside her.

Bill reappeared, carrying the little goblin, whom he set down carefully upon the bed. Griphook grunted his thanks, and Bill left them, closing the door upon the group.

“I’m sorry to take you out of bed,” Draco said, endeavoring to be polite first. “How are your legs?”

“Painful,” the goblin replied in his stiff, stoic voice. “But mending.” He was still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wore a strange look: half-defensive, half-intrigued. Fleur had removed his shoes; his long feet were dirty. He was larger than a house elf, but not by much, and his domed head was bigger than a human’s.

“I don’t know if you know me--” Draco began, but Griphook interrupted him.

“You are Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa of the House of Black,” Griphook said softly. “Your family has its share of famous individuals...and of course, you are among the wizarding world’s ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight.’” He nodded slowly. “And, curiously, you are legally deceased. You’ve been dead for close to a year now...and yet here you stand before me.” His eyes darted to Ron and Hermione, but he did not remark on Draco’s being with them, though Draco had no doubt that Griphook knew who they were, as well.

Draco and the goblin studied each other, sizing one another up. Draco wanted to get through this interview with Griphook quickly, but at the same time was afraid of making a false move. Making the goblin close down on him would not help anything. While he tried to decide on the best way to approach his request, the goblin broke the silence again.

“You buried the elf,” he said, sounding unexpectedly rancorous. “I watched you from the window of the bedroom next door.”

“Yes,” Draco said quietly. “I did.”

Griphook looked at him out of the corners of his slanting black eyes. “You are an unusual wizard, Draco Malfoy.”

“How so?” Draco asked, rubbing his arm absently. It had been some time since he’d felt the impulse to rub his fingers over the skin beneath his sleeve, longer still since he’d found himself clawing at it.

“You dug the grave. By hand.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, dropping his hand as he stared back at Griphook. “Dobby was my friend.”

Griphook did not answer. Draco half-wondered if he was being sneered at for acting like a Muggle, but it did not matter much to him whether Griphook approved of Dobby’s grave or not. He gathered himself again to get to his point. “Griphook, I need to ask—”

“You also rescued a goblin.” At Draco’s confused look, he pressed on. “You brought me here. Saved me.”

“I assume that you’re not upset by that,” Draco said a little impatiently.

“No, Mr. Malfoy,” Griphook said, and with one finger he twisted the thin black beard upon his chin. “But you are a very odd wizard.”

“So you said,” Draco replied. “Well, I need some help, Griphook, and only you can give it to me.” The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but continued to frown at Draco as though he had never seen anything like him. “I need to break into a Gringotts vault.”

Draco had not meant to say it quite that baldly; the words had flown right past his instinct to handle this with some delicacy and diplomacy. Ron and Hermione were staring at Draco as though he had gone mad, either for the idea itself or for his directness in voicing it. “Draco—” Hermione began, but she was cut off by Griphook.

“Break into a Gringotts vault?” the goblin repeated, wincing a little as he shifted his position upon the bed. “It is impossible.”

“No, it isn’t,” Ron contradicted him. “It’s been done. It happened at the beginning of our first year at Hogwarts--Harry Potter told us that you’d taken him and Hagrid to the exact vault that got robbed, that very day.”

“The vault in question was, as you say, empty at the time,” the goblin snapped, and Draco understood that even though Griphook had left Gringotts, he was offended at the idea of its defenses being breached. “Its protection was minimal.”

“Well, the vault we need to get into isn’t empty, and I’m guessing its protection will be pretty powerful,” Draco said, speaking over their arguing. “It belongs to the Lestranges.” He saw Hermione and Ron look at each other, astonished, but there would be time enough to explain after Griphook had given his answer.

“You have no chance,” Griphook replied flatly. “No chance at all. _ If you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours—” _

_ “Thief, you have been warned, beware— _ yes, I know, I’ve seen the words hundreds of times throughout my life,” Draco cut him off. “But I’m not trying to get myself any treasure, I’m not trying to take anything for personal gain. Do you believe me when I tell you that?”

The goblin looked slantwise at Draco, seemingly searching for something in his face--and after a moment, Griphook appeared to feel that he had found what he sought. “If there was ever a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain,” Griphook said finally, “Then it would be you, Mr. Malfoy. Goblins and elves are not used to the protection or the respect that you have shown this night. Not from wand-carriers.”

“Wand-carriers,” Draco repeated, a little bemused; the phrase fell oddly upon his ears as his arm burned sharply once more. Voldemort was moving again, and it made Draco long to move on to questioning Ollivander next door. But he had made his choice, and he had to follow it through to its end.

“The right to carry a wand,” Griphook said quietly, “...has long been contested between wizards and goblins.”

“Well, goblins can do magic without wands,” Ron pointed out, and Draco’s lips thinned with annoyance at his friend for rising to the bait, even if Griphook hadn’t actively been trying to provoke a response. Hermione winced, giving Ron a look that clearly said,  _ Be quiet! _

“That is immaterial!” Griphook snapped back at him, incensed in turn. “Wizards refuse to share the secrets of wand-lore with other magical beings, they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!”

“Yeah, but goblins won’t share any of their magic either,” Ron argued back. “You won’t tell us how to make swords and armor the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way wizards have never—”

“None of that matters,” Draco cut in sharply, noting Griphook’s rising color. “This isn’t about wizards versus goblins or any other sort of magical creature—”

Griphook gave a nasty laugh. “But it is, it is about precisely that! As the Dark Lord becomes ever more powerful, your race is set still more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under Wizarding rule, house elves are slaughtered, and who amongst the wand-carriers protests?”

“We do!” Hermione cried. She sat up straight now, her eyes bright and more alert than they’d been since arriving at Shell Cottage. “We protest! And I’m hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I’m a Mudblood!”

“Don’t call yourself—” Ron started to mutter, but Hermione’s eyes flashed.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she demanded. She gripped the sleeve of Fleur’s borrowed house robe, yanking it up to expose her left forearm; Draco inhaled, sharply and audibly, when he saw the word  _ Mudblood _ carved gruesomely into her skin. “Mudblood, and proud of it! I’ve got no higher position under this new order than you have, Griphook! It was me Bellatrix Lestrange chose to torture, back at Malfoy Manor--in part because she knew it would hurt Draco, but primarily because of my blood status.”

She set her jaw, letting the sleeve fall again. Draco stared at the now-concealed scars, his thoughts jumping and clashing together so violently that he wasn’t certain it was safe for him to speak for a moment. The wounds already looked healed over as if it had been several days--but he knew without question that that was merely the result of dittany and Fleur’s skill.

He should have killed Bellatrix right there in that cursed drawing room while he’d had the chance.

Hermione was pressing on. “Did you know that it was Harry Potter who set Dobby free?” she asked Griphook. “Back in our second year. And did you know that we’ve wanted elves to be freed for years?” Draco didn’t miss that Ron fidgeted uncomfortably on the arm of Hermione’s chair, but he wisely said nothing this time. “You can’t want You-Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!”

The goblin gazed at Hermione with the same curiosity that he had directed at Draco. “What do you seek within the Lestranges’ vault?” he asked abruptly, finally looking back at the blonde. “The sword that lies inside it is a fake. This is the real one.” He looked from one to the other of the trio. “But I think that you already know this. You asked me to lie for you, back at the Manor.”

“But the fake sword isn’t the only thing in that vault, is it?” Draco asked. “Perhaps you’ve seen some of the other, very precious things that are also stored in there?” His heart was pounding harder than ever. He redoubled his efforts to ignore the twinging of his arm, because he did not care that Riddle was moving. Draco cared more about his immediate present.

Griphook twisted his beard absently around his finger again. “It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the  objects placed in our care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers.” The goblin caressed the sword, and his black eyes roved from Draco to Hermione to Ron and then back again.

“So young,” he said finally, “to be fighting so many.”

“Will you help us?” Draco asked. He couldn’t say he disagreed that they were unfairly young to be bearing this burden, but that really wasn’t something that could be altered. They had no choice but to take up this fight. “We haven’t got a hope of breaking in without a goblin’s help. You’re our one chance.”

“I shall...think about it,” Griphook said at last, maddeningly.

“But—” Ron started angrily; Hermione nudged him hard in the ribs, stopping his voice.

“Thank you,” Draco said, pushing away from the window.

The goblin bowed his great domed head in acknowledgement, then flexed his short legs. “I think,” he said, settling himself ostentatiously upon Bill and Fleur’s bed, “...that the Skele-Gro has finished its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me....”

“Yes. Of course,” Draco replied; but before leaving the room he leaned forward and took the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook did not protest, but Draco thought he saw resentment in the goblin’s eyes as he closed the door upon his small figure.

“Little git,” Ron whispered. “He’s enjoying keeping us hanging.”

“Draco,” Hermione murmured worriedly, pulling both of the men away from the bedroom door, into the middle of the still-dark landing, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Are you saying there’s a Horcrux in the Lestranges’ vault?”

“Yes,” Draco said with certainty. “Bellatrix was terrified when she thought we’d been in there, right? She was beside herself. Why? What did she think we’d seen, what else did she think we might have taken? Something she was petrified Riddle would find out about--and not forgive the loss of, not even for her.” He scoffed softly. “Not that he actually gives a fuck about her, but she is his most loyal follower.”

� “But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-Who’s been, places where he’s done something important?” Ron asked, looking baffled. “Has he ever been inside the Lestranges’ vault?”

“I don’t know whether he was ever even inside of Gringotts,” Draco replied truthfully. “He never had gold there when he was younger, because nobody left him anything. He would have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley.” Draco smiled, a little bittersweetly. “I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. I think he’d have seen it as a proper symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And among his followers, he trusts Bellatrix and her husband the most...they were his most devoted servants before he fell, and they went looking for him after he vanished.”

He’d heard that tale far too many times--from Riddle himself, praising Bellatrix for her fierce devotion so that she simpered and groveled at his feet, delighting in his verbal approval, or from his aunt, hissing and spitting spitefully at other Death Eaters who she deemed lesser, inferior, compared to herself and Rudolphus.

“I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though,” Draco added. “He never told my father the truth about the diary, after all. He probably just told her that it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for anything you want to hide...and of course, she’d take it as the highest honor to be asked.”

When Draco had finished speaking, Ron shook his head, looking awed. “You really understand him,” he remarked softly.

“Parts of him,” Draco replied at once; he did not want either of them to begin worrying about the insights that he could gain into their enemy’s mind. So much of this was just gathering facts and then making calculated, logical leaps. “Just certain things. I wish I’d understood Dumbledore as well...but we’ll see. Come on—Ollivander’s next.”

Ron and Hermione looked bewildered, but mildly impressed, as they followed him across the little landing and knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur’s. A weak “Come in!” answered them.

The wandmaker was lying on the twin bed farthest from the window. He had been held in the cellar for more than a year, and tortured, Draco knew, on at least one occasion. He was terribly emaciated, the bones of his face sticking out sharply against the yellowish skin. His great silver eyes seemed vast in their sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the blanket could have belonged to a skeleton.

Draco sat down on the empty bed, beside Ron and Hermione. The sunlight was not visible in here; the room faced the cliff-top garden, and Dobby’s freshly dug grave. “Mr. Ollivander, I’m very sorry to disturb you,” Draco began.

“My dear boy.” Ollivander’s voice was heartbreakingly feeble. “You rescued us. I thought we would die in that place. I can never thank you...never thank you...enough.” He smiled, very faintly and tiredly. “I remember the day that you purchased your wand, young Draco Malfoy. Hawthorn...ten inches, reasonably springy. Unicorn hair core...”

The older wizard beckoned, and Draco obligingly moved to sit carefully on the edge of his bed instead. Ollivander reached out, placing one hand over Draco’s. “I was very relieved to see that wand call to you. Unicorn hair cores...those occur in wands that are destined for goodness and for healing. The wizard who wields such a wand...will find that using it for Dark Magic would be nearly impossible.” Ollivander leaned back into his pillows again. “I always anticipated goodness from you. And today I was blessed to see it...and to benefit from it, first-hand.”

“We were glad to do it.” Draco inhaled deeply; the wand-maker’s words felt unbearably kind, more than he thought he deserved. But he was certain, somehow, that there was hardly any time left in which to beat Voldemort to his goal, or else to attempt to thwart him. This was no time to deliberate his own worth.

Draco drew another deep breath, steadying himself. On the other bed, Hermione smiled at him tenderly, both indicating her agreement with Ollivander, and encouraging him to continue.

“I need your expertise on wand-lore,” Draco explained, and the older man nodded at once. “Specifically...what you know about a wand passing from one master to another. I mean, after all, as you say--the wand picks us, right? So it--once it’s chosen a witch or wizard, it wouldn’t yield to another owner--could it?”

“Perhaps...” Ollivander mused. “If you took it—and I mean took it either by force, disarming another wizard, or fully against their will, such as seizing a wand from an opponent that you have defeated in duel—then it may become yours. Of course, the manner of this taking does matter. Much also depends upon the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change.”

There was silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea. “You talk about wands as if they have feelings,” Draco said hesitantly. “Like they can think for themselves.”

“The wand does choose the wizard,” Ollivander reiterated. “That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore.”

“A person could still use a wand that hasn’t chosen them, though?” Draco clarified.

“Oh yes; if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction...and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.”

The sea gushed forward and backward; it was a mournful sound. “And this holds true for all wands, does it?” Draco asked softly.

“I think so,” Ollivander replied, his protuberant eyes sharpening upon Draco’s face. “You ask very deep and insightful questions, Mr. Malfoy. Wand-lore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic.”

“So, it isn’t necessary to kill the previous owner to take true possession of a wand?” Draco asked next.

Ollivander swallowed, looking rather ill at the thought. “Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill.”

“There are legends, though,” Hermione interposed, and Draco looked to her, nodding to encourage her contribution to this very casual interrogation. His left arm burned sharply; he was sure that Voldemort was at last putting his plans into action. Hermione’s voice grew quieter. “Legends about a wand—or wands—that have passed from hand to hand by murder.”

Ollivander turned pale. Against the snowy pillow he was light gray, and his eyes were enormous, bloodshot, and bulging with what looked like fear. “Only one wand, I think,” he whispered.

“And Ri--You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn’t he?” Draco said, very softly.

“I—how?” Ollivander croaked, and he looked appealingly at Ron and Hermione for help, though their expressions were just as set and intent as Draco’s was. “How do you know this?”

“He wanted you to tell him what you knew of that wand’s history--of where it came to be most recently, and who had mastery over it, did he not? Who he would need to defeat in order to claim it?”

Ollivander looked terrified at how much Draco knew of Voldemort’s intentions. “He tortured me, you must understand that! The Cruciatus Curse, I—I had no choice but to tell him what I knew, what I guessed! Rumors, claims, demonstrations--anyone invested in wand-lore has theories--”

“I understand,” Draco interrupted his panic, his tone gentle. “He is relentless when he wants an answer. So he tortured you for knowledge about this wand, the one that changes hands by murder. When You-Know-Who found enough evidence that it does exist, he was determined to make it his own, correct?”

“How do you know this?” Draco waited, not answering. “Yes, he asked,” Ollivander confessed. “He wanted to know everything I could tell him about the wand variously known as the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, or the Elder Wand.”

Draco glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione, who both looked suitably awed, and alarmed. “The Dark Lord,” Ollivander went on in hushed and frightened tones, “...had always been happy with the wand I made him as a youth—yew and phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-half inches—until he discovered the existence of its twin, the only other wand containing a feather from that phoenix. Now he seeks the other--the more powerful, the  _ most _ powerful wand, in order to assert himself as the most powerful sorcerer alive.”

The old wizard shook his head, face shadowed. “Many of his followers thought it a pointless mission--some dared speak up--told him that he did not need to seek the most dangerous wand ever created just because of the rumors of a new warrior, a new  _ Harry Potter... _ that he would be able to defeat his enemies, this Dragon, effortlessly, just as he was....but no. He is determined to possess it...because he believes it will make him truly invulnerable.”

“And will it?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrows. He could try and ask, to see if Ollivander had knowledge or opinions about the entire  _ Hallows _ matter--but this conversation was not about an infallible Invisibility Cloak, or a stone that could allegedly bring the dead back to some semblance of existence.

“The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attack,” Ollivander replied. “But the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit...formidable.” He shivered a little, his eyes briefly seemingly to become more vacant--Draco had the surreal feeling that the old man was imagining that happening, just as much as he was admitting to dreading it ever coming to pass.

“You—you really think this wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?” Hermione asked softly. Draco knew that she had already been more or less persuaded, but Hermione’s mind was fueled by knowledge. The more she could learn about any given topic, the better.

“Oh yes,” Ollivander murmured. “Yes, it is perfectly possible to trace the wand’s course through history. There are gaps, of course, and long ones, where it vanishes from view, temporarily lost or hidden; but always it resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics that those who are learned in wandlore recognize. There are written accounts, some of them obscure, that I and other wandmakers have made it our business to study. They have the ring of authenticity.”

“So you—you don’t think it can be a fairy tale or a myth?” Hermione asked, sounding both regretful and academically fascinated.

“No,” Ollivander replied. “Whether it needs to pass by murder, I do not know; its history is quite bloody, but that may be simply due to the fact that it is such a desirable object, and arouses such volitle passions in wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands, and an object of incredible fascination to all of us who study the power of wands.”

“Mr. Ollivander,” Draco continued, “Please tell me the most recent trail of the wand as you knew it--what were you able to tell You-Know-Who? I need to understand, I am not asking with judgment or anything of the like. I need to know where he is going.” Draco’s arm was aching worse and worse; somewhere, Riddle’s excitement was mounting into savage delight. “Please. Tell me.”

“There...there was a rumor,” Ollivander answered, dropping his gaze. “A rumor, years and years ago, long before you were born! I believe...that Mykew Gregorovitch himself started it. You can see how good it would be for business: that he was studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder Wand!”

He shook his head remorsefully. “That was the last that many knew of the Deathstick’s journey, as far as any concrete evidence was concerned.” Ollivander paused, and there was a flicker of something uneasy and self-deprecating across his face.

Draco worked hard to make his voice sound coaxing and polite--there could be no criticism in his tone. “But you found more information, Mr. Ollivander? Rumors, if nothing else?”

Ollivander sighed heavily. “My entire life has been...dedicated to the art form of wandmaking, and the ever-expanding compendium of wandlore. With no regard to the personal interactions among witches and wizards, as far as their wands are concerned...it has always remained of utmost interest to me to track such...significant tales of wand-related magic.”

He shook his head, looking towards the window. “I was, unexpectedly, given the opportunity to discuss the legendary idea of the Elder Wand...with Gregorovitch himself. And he confessed to me that he had begun that rumor himself--but only because he  _ had, _ indeed, possessed the wand.”

Ron inhaled sharply, and Draco didn’t need to look at him to know that the ginger was wondering if they were minutes from finding out that the wand was actually within their reach.

“But it was stolen from him,” Ollivander whispered, and he said it as if it were a great confession. “He did not publicize that information, because he was enraged and humiliated by it--he told me that he was in his home one night, and heard a sound; upon investigating, he entered his work room and spotted a golden-haired young man exiting through his window. He said that the youth escaped his every effort to find him, and that the wand never returned to his hand again.”

Ollivander dropped his eyes, grief entering his voice. “These past months...I have had great remorse that I did not urge him to be verbal about no longer possessing the Deathstick. I fear that it was inevitable, with the evidence trail ending at Gregorovitch’s door, that He Who Must Not Be Named would eventually target my colleague and old friend...and I do not suppose that he would leave him alive.”

“No, I imagine not. But that is in no way on you, of course,” Draco said. His mind was whirling, but he did not wish to make Ollivander uncomfortable by appearing overly excited about this new development. “I know that you said he never found the thief--but did he ever manage to identify him, at least?”

The old wandmaker’s face tightened. “Indeed--many, many years later, Gregorovitch did learn the identity of the golden-haired boy who had sprung from his window. Not in his own pursuit of him, or seeking to reclaim the Elder Wand...but because...of the day that the thief was finally conquered, and the wand was taken from  _ him, _ at last.”

This sounded ominous, unnervingly so; even knowing that Ollivander was hardly trying to manipulate them with the story he was divulging, Draco sensed that they were on the precipice of something overwhelming, worldview-changing, and shocking.

“What do you mean, conquered?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Ollivander met his gaze, his large eyes almost glowing with intensity. “Gregorovitch told me, the day that it happened. We were among those who...rushed to join in the celebrations. To commemorate Albus Dumbledore on his unparalleled victory. And to witness the history-defining event of him incarcerating his life-long nemesis into Nurmengard.”

It felt as if the air was suddenly sucked completely out of the little room, despite its light color tones and sunny decor. “Mr. Ollivander,” Draco managed, and it was taking all of his willpower to keep his tone level. “Do you mean to say that the thief--he was--”

“Gellert Grindelwald,” Ollivander confirmed. “Given the timeline...I estimate it to have been some decades, many perhaps, before he ever faced off with Albus Dumbledore for the final time...it is highly likely that some of the worst of Grindelwald’s crimes were committed with the Deathstick in his hand. Who can say...but it was in his hand when they dueled. And when he was defeated, and Dumbledore had him imprisoned in his own fortress, Gregorvitch implored him to at least show him--and to let me see, as well--the legendary wand. But none dared  _ ever _ attempt to claim it from Dumbledore after that day, most assuredly.”

He smiled sadly, sinking tiredly back into his pillows. “He truly was, after all...the greatest and most powerful wizard to have lived, as far as I know of history.”

Draco’s head was spinning so fast, it felt as if it was about to fly off of his shoulders. He stood up, amazed to find that his legs weren’t shaking; then he paused again. Really, what was the harm in seeing if there was more to be said? He’d already made his choice, after all. “Mr. Ollivander, one last thing, and then we’ll let you get some rest. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?”

“The—the what?” the older wizard asked, looking utterly bewildered.

“The Deathly Hallows.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this still something to do with wands?”

Draco looked into the sunken face, and he believed that Ollivander was not acting. He did not know about the Hallows. “Thank you,” he said gently. “No, it isn’t important. Thank you very much for all of your help. We’ll leave you to get some rest now.”

Ollivander looked stricken, as if afraid that Draco was departing in anger at him. “He was torturing me!” he gasped. “The Cruciatus Curse...you have no idea....”

“I do,” Draco told him, his tone firm and heavy. “I assure you, I really and truly do understand. Please, rest easy. Thank you again for all of your help.”

He led Ron and Hermione back down the staircase without a word, and they followed readily. Through the kitchen doorway Draco caught a glimpse of Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean sitting at the table with cups of tea in front of them. They all looked up at Draco as he appeared in the doorway, but he merely nodded to them in passing, and continued into the garden with Ron and Hermione behind him.

The reddish-brown mound of earth that covered Dobby lay ahead of them at the edge of the garden, and Draco walked back over to it, leaning against the driftwood fence that lined the cottage garden as he turned around to discuss all that they had learned.

“So Gregorovitch did have the Elder Wand a long time ago, as he had claimed,” Draco summarized. “But then, it was stolen from him by Grindelwald--at a young age.” A laughing photo of two young men flashed through his mind, and Draco sighed. “Sometime after he was our age, after he and Dumbledore were romantically involved. He stole the Elder Wand when he was a young adult.”

Draco rubbed his face tiredly. “How Grindelwald found out to begin with that Gregorovitch had it, I don’t know—but if Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread the rumor himself, I suppose it can’t have been that difficult.”

His arm was burning wildly. Voldemort was so very close to his goal. “Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become powerful. And then at the height of his power, when Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could stop him anymore, he dueled Grindelwald and beat him, and he took the Elder Wand.”

And there it was. The conclusion, at least until this point in the story, of the Elder Wand’s path throughout history.

“Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?” Ron echoed, slightly strangled. “But then—where is it now?”

“At Hogwarts,” Draco said, very quietly. “Entombed with Dumbledore.” The words were on his tongue _ \--entombed with its final Master. _ But they caught in his throat, stopped dead by their own falseness.

Because they  _ were _ false. Although the wand had been Dumbledore’s, from the day that he defeated his former lover-turned-enemy Grindelwald until the day that Severus Snape obeyed the older wizard’s command to bring his life to an end on his own terms, by his own design...

Draco did not know if Dumbledore had intended for the wand to be in his hand when Severus delivered the killing blow. If he had meant for it to belong to him, loyal to him, when he died as he intended to, because  _ that _ would have meant that the Elder Wand did not have to transfer its allegiance. It did not have to go to the wizard who had defeated Dumbledore, because he had died--as he  _ had planned to-- _ undefeated.

But regardless of whether that had been the plan on paper, Dumbledore had changed the course at the last minute, hadn’t he? He had made a rash, in-the-moment decision--one that had protected his teenage spy and companion, but one that also threw all of his careful, strategic planning away.

Dumbledore had ordered Draco to Disarm him. Standing on the Astronomy Tower, the two of them alone for mere seconds as they’d heard the Death Eaters thundering up the stairs towards them, the Headmaster had commanded Draco to preserve his undercover status and the illusion that he had been there, all along, to fulfill Voldemort’s kill order against Dumbledore. And Draco had obeyed him.

“But then, let’s go!” Ron’s voice broke through his thoughts, his tone urgent. “Draco, blimey, let’s go--and get it before he does!”

“It’s too late for that,” Draco said softly. “He tracked it past Gregorovitch, to Grindelwald. He learned about the final transfer--he knows where it is.” Draco lifted his left arm, knowing that they would understand that he was referring to his burning, stinging Marked arm. “He’s there now. At Dumbledore’s tomb.”

“Draco!” Ron gasped furiously. “When did you figure all this out—why have we been wasting time? Why did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone—we could  _ still _ go—”

“No,” Draco corrected him quietly, and then...he smiled. The expression felt tight, like he hadn’t made such a face in nearly long enough. “No, we don’t need to, Ron. Riddle may do this--he may break into Dumbledore’s grave like a common petty thief, and he may pluck the Elder Wand from his very fingers--but it won’t do him a damned bit of good.”

Ron looked bewildered, still a little confused and angry--but Hermione was staring intently at Draco’s face. As always, he knew that she was reading him, knowing him to his soul and therefore able to find and follow some of the winding trails of thoughts that were whiplashing around in his brain.

“Just tell us, Draco,” she murmured, her voice soft and rich with affection--and anticipation. “You’ve figured it out, whatever it was--that Dumbledore needed you to find for yourself. Haven’t you? So tell us, love.”

He reached out, cupping her cheek lightly, and she leaned into the tender touch with warm eyes. “My family is, one way or another, one of the oldest and longest-lasting bloodlines in the wizarding world,” Draco reminded them. “What Griphook said--Malfoys are part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and the Blacks are just as ancient and steeped in deep magic, and magical culture. For as long as there have been wizards in Europe, in England--there have been people of my bloodline, whatever surname they bore.”

Hermione’s eyes sparked; the dots were beginning to connect.

“I’ve been told my entire life that I am descended from one of those names that we all know of--listed in all of the books. In that bloody genealogy book that Kreacher had--in Bagshot’s textbook, in thousands more. Hermione, you’ll have read my ancestor’s name as one of the founders of English magical culture in hundreds of contexts.”

“The Peverells,” she whispered, nodding; Ron sucked in a sharp breath, recognizing that. “Which--?”

“I never knew,” he replied, and then he snorted a laugh. “But do you know, now I think I do. I maintain what I said before--I’d bet you, generations of them living in Godric’s Hollow, that James Potter was of the line that wound its way down from Ignotus.”

“The third brother,” Hermione said, actually clasping a hand to her mouth. “The--the brother who received an invincible Invisibility Cloak from Death!”

Draco nodded. “I suddenly think that perhaps Dumbledore knew even more about me than I’d realized--or that I’d known about my own family.” He shook his head in amazement, taking out his beloved, trustworthy hawthorn wand and turning it over in his fingers. He wondered if it and the Elder Wand could sense one another across the distance, in any way. “I think, most likely, I’m of the line of Antioch. The first brother--the one who requested the creation of the Elder Wand.”

Hermione lowered her hand, visibly trembling. “So does that--does that mean that  _ you’re--” _

“Yes.” Draco chuckled softly. “But not just by blood, as a matter of fact. Yes, I am the true master of the Elder Wand--” Ron choked on a shocked sound, looking newly awed and possibly vaguely terrified of this revelation. “--both because my earliest ancestor was its first owner...and because the night that he died, I disarmed Dumbledore--at his request--atop the Tower.” He blinked, earlier thoughts winding back and correcting themselves. “Bloody hell, I’d wager he  _ knew _ that. He had me do that--not just to protect me, but to restore the Elder Wand to its rightful master family.”

Ron actually sank down to sit on the soft garden soil, looking gobsmacked. “So--so even after killing so many people to get it--after hunting for it so hard--he’s never, never going to--”

“Riddle will never master that wand,” Draco confirmed, and then he couldn’t help it; he grinned. “It will never make him the invulnerable master of death that he is so desperate to be.” Draco felt his shoulders straighten; something strange and deep, like a pride that ran deeper than blood or legacy, seemed to flow through him. “And when I face him, at last...I am going to destroy him.”

Draco’s arm flared with heat again, and he sighed, tugging up his sleeve to examine the stark black lines of the Dark Mark. “I know,” he muttered at it in annoyance, shaking his head. It hardly mattered, after all. Riddle’s efforts were meaningless “I know. He’s there, now.”

He did not need the insight into the Dark Lord’s mind that Harry Potter had been cursed with having; Draco did not need to stand on the edge of the Black Lake beneath the beautiful dark silhouette of Hogwarts, with all its lovely glowing windows and welcome atmosphere of knowledge, and magic, and belonging.

He didn’t need to see Voldemort approach the white marble tomb. Or to watch the tomb split open from head to foot, revealing the shrouded figure within, as tall and thin as it had been in life. Draco didn’t need to observe Dumbledore’s hands folded upon his chest--or the wand, where it lay clutched beneath them, buried with him.

Returning inside with Ron and Hermione, knowing already what their next steps would need to be, Draco did not bother to even think about the spider-like hand that swooped and pulled the wand from Dumbledore’s grasp, believing himself to have triumphed at last.

* * *

Shell Cottage stood alone on a cliff-framed shore overlooking the sea, its walls whitewashed and embedded with shells and colorful stones. It was a lonely and beautiful place. Wherever Draco went inside the tiny home, or out into its garden, he could hear the constant ebb and flow of the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature.

He spent much of the next few days making excuses to escape from the crowded cottage, craving the cliff-top view of open sky and wide, empty sea, and the feeling of cold, salty wind on his face. The enormity of his decision not to race Voldemort to the wand still scared Draco, even though he knew that he had been completely right in it.

Riddle possessing it now made no difference to the end result--but at the same time, Draco could not remember ever before choosing  _ not _ to act. The doubts came, despite his knowing that they were pointless, and so Draco frequently sought solitude to clear his mind of them. He felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering whether he had misread the signs, whether he should not have taken the other way.

But a short time spent in the clear, wide open air, enjoying the utter sense of safety and remoteness that Shell Cottage was cradled in, always let him return to the interior of the house feeling clear-headed, calm, and sure of his decisions and his realizations.

A few inches from where one of his hands were resting on the sun-warmed sand of the dune, Draco became aware that the grass was rustling with more than the sea breeze drifting around him. He turned his head, watching it quiver curiously--Draco felt no impulse to flee or pull away, because the disturbance was quite small--and then he started as the cause emerged.

It was a snake, no larger than the garden one he had met at the Burrow; he judged it to be a grass or water snake by its grey-brown colored scales.

“Hello,” he said, this time unsurprised to hear his own voice emerge as a hiss.

The snake curled up in the sand, lifting its head and flicking its tongue a few times before speaking. “My kind...wishes to apologize,” it told him, and the voice Draco heard was melodic, rather feminine. “Word spread of you, serpent-tongue-speaker, and your request for aid. We fear we did not reach you in time to warn you of the humans who hunt for outcasts among wizarding kind.”

He smiled bittersweetly, guessing that the snake was referring to the Snatchers. “It’s alright,” Draco assured her. “We survived. Barely, but we did.”

She turned her narrow neck, beady black eyes moving to the partially-visible white stone that marked Dobby’s grave. “Your scent tastes of grief. We saw you bury the small creature there. He was dear to you?”

Draco sighed. “He was, yes, but his death wasn’t because we weren’t warned about the Snatchers--that’s the humans who were hunting us. Please, rest assured that I do not blame snakes for the losses we’ve faced.” He shrugged. “We knew about them already, in fact. Being captured was just...very unfortunate.”

The little snake continued to examine the grave for a moment before looking back at him curiously. “May we, then, at least pledge to be guardians of your friend’s final resting place? We will assist the humans of this dwelling to ensure that it does not become overgrown by weeds, and we will bring flowers and other small gifts to lay upon it in tribute to your fallen companion.”

Unbidden, Draco felt himself tearing up slightly. He smiled more warmly, and reached out his hand; the water snake tapped the tip of her nose to his fingertip as in solidarity. “That would be very kind. I appreciate it.”

“Draco?” He looked over his shoulder, seeing that Fleur had come out of the cottage, her long silver hair flying in the breeze as she smiled at him. “Draco, Grip’ook would like to speak to you. ’E eez in ze smallest bedroom, ’e says ’e does not want to be over’eard.” Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver messages was clear; she looked irritable as she walked back around the house.

“Merci, Fleur.” He knew that she appreciated the tiny gesture of Draco using her native tongue for her, and Draco found that he rather enjoyed the fun of trading dialogue in the classic romance language when it was just the two of them. Bill was picking it up, as best as he could, but he was a slow learner even with his fluent, quick-tongued wife.

Looking back down, he found the snake watching him still, and Draco nodded at her. “I’d best go in. Thank you, again--and if I can ever help snakes out, in turn, please spread the word that I am always ready to be called upon.” She bowed her delicate head, and Draco rose, returning to the cottage with fresh peace in his heart.

Griphook was waiting for them, as Fleur had said, in the tiniest of the cottage’s three bedrooms, in which Hermione and Luna slept by night. He had drawn the red cotton curtains against the bright, cloudy sky, which gave the room a fiery glow at odds with the rest of the airy, light cottage.

“I have reached my decision, Mr. Malfoy,” Griphook announced. He was sitting cross-legged in a low chair, drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. “Though the goblins of Gringotts will consider it base treachery, I have decided to help you—”

“That is fantastic,” Draco said at once, relief surging through him. “Griphook, thank you, we’re really—”

“—in return,” the goblin interrupted him firmly to continue. “...for payment.”

Slightly taken aback, Draco hesitated. “Alright...sure. How much do you want? I’ve got gold.” It would certainly take some trickery to get his hands on it, since he couldn’t exactly owl his parents for a sack of galleons, but--

“Not gold,” Griphook replied dismissively. “I have gold.” His black eyes glittered; there were no whites to his eyes. “I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor.”

Draco’s spirits plummeted immediately. “You can’t have that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Then,” Griphook said softly, “We have a problem.”

“We can give you something else,” Ron interjected eagerly; before he even continued, Draco knew that he was going to cringe at what his friend was about to say. “I’ll bet the Lestranges have got loads of stuff, you can take your pick once we get into the vault.”

He had said the wrong thing; Griphook flushed angrily. “I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure treasures to which I have no right!”

“The sword’s ours—We’re Gryffindors, and it was Godric Gryffindor’s—”

“And before it was Gryffindor’s, whose was it?” Griphook demanded, sitting up straight, his beady eyes flashing.

“No one’s,” Ron said, a little more hesitantly. “It was made for him, wasn’t it?”

“No!” the goblin snapped, bristling with anger as he pointed a long finger at Ron. “Wizarding arrogance again! That sword was Ragnuk the First’s, taken from him by Godric Gryffindor! It is a lost treasure, a masterpiece of goblin workmanship! It belongs with the goblins! The sword is the price of my hire, take it or leave it!” Griphook glared at the three of them defiantly.

Draco glanced at the other two, then finally said, “We need to discuss this, Griphook, if that’s all right. Could you give us a few minutes?” Griphook nodded, though he looked quite sour.

Downstairs in the empty sitting room, Draco walked to the fireplace, brow furrowed, trying to think what to do. Behind him, Ron started in at once, “He’s having a laugh. We can’t let him have that sword.”

“Do you think it’s true?” Draco asked Hermione softly. “That the sword was stolen by Gryffindor?”

“I don’t know,” she said hopelessly. “Wizarding history often skates over what the wizards have done to other magical races, but there’s no account that I know of that says Gryffindor stole the sword.”

“It’ll be one of those goblin stories,” Ron said firmly. “About how the wizards are always trying to get one over on them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn’t asked for one of our wands.”

“Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron,” Hermione countered. “They’ve been treated brutally in the past.”

“Goblins aren’t exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they?” Ron shot back. “They’ve killed plenty of us. They’ve fought dirty too.”

“But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most under-handed and violent isn’t going to make him more likely to help us, is it?”

There was a pause while they all tried to think of a way around the problem. Draco looked out of the window at Dobby’s grave; Luna was arranging sea lavender in a jam jar beside the headstone.

“Okay,” Ron began, and Draco turned back to face him, “how’s this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until we get inside the vault, and then he can have it. There’s a fake in there, isn’t there? We switch them, and give him the fake.”

“Ron, he’d know the difference better than we would!” Hermione said sharply. “He’s the only one who realized there had been a swap!”

“Yeah, but we could scarper before he realizes—” He quailed at once beneath the look Hermione fired at him.

“That,” she said quietly, “is despicable. Ask for his help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why goblins don’t like wizards, Ron?”

Ron’s ears had turned brick red. “Alright, alright! It was the only thing I could think of ! What’s your solution, then?”

“We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable.”

“Brilliant. I’ll go and get one of our other ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it.”

Silence fell between them again. Draco was sure that the goblin would accept nothing but the sword, even if they had something as valuable to offer him. Yet the sword was their one, indispensable weapon against the Horcruxes. He closed his eyes for a moment or two and listened to the rush of the sea. The idea that Gryffindor might have stolen the sword was unpleasant to him, but Draco knew better than anyone just how stubbornly and disturbingly pureblooded wizards could twist historical facts and stories to suit their version of how things had come to be the way that they were.

“Maybe he’s lying,” Draco said at last, opening his eyes again. “Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn’t take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history’s right?"

“Does it make a difference?” Hermione asked wearily.

“Well, it changes how I feel about it,” Draco replied, but he knew that she was right. He took a deep breath. “Okay. I think that we do have to agree--he can have the sword after he’s helped us get into that vault.” Draco frowned. “Hang on--let’s go back upstairs, let’s--let me talk to him again.”

Back in the smallest bedroom, Draco moved to sit across from Griphook while Ron and Hermione held back a short ways. “Okay, look,” he said. “We agree to your terms, your price--you can have the sword back, after you’ve helped us enter the vault.  _ But... _ hear me out, please?”

He paused, respectfully, and Griphook narrowed his eyes; then he nodded, gesturing with one hand for Draco to continue speaking. “Thank you. So...the reason that we need the sword, that we had it to begin with--before being brought to Malfoy Manor, I mean, and why I was so desperate to make sure that we deceived Bellatrix and got out of there  _ with _ the sword...is that we three were given a mission by Albus Dumbledore.”

The goblin blinked at that, but did not interrupt; Draco went on. “And the sword has a pivotal role to play in that mission. We didn’t realize that to begin with, but Dumbledore managed to lay measures in place to ensure that we’d realize, and get our hands on the sword.”

He sat up a little, meeting Griphook’s eyes intently, and he knew that the goblin was evaluating him closely to determine his sincerity. “But once this mission is complete, and once we have finished the tasks set before us--for which we truly, desperately  _ need _ Gryff--this sword...you have my solemn word that I will personally hand it back to you. It will be returned to you for good.”

Draco drew a breath. “I will warn you, I do not know how long this mission will take us. I cannot give you a timeline, not with any degree of certainty. But I swear it to you.” He raised his chin, perhaps a touch defiantly. “As a Malfoy, what little that means, and as a Black.”

For a very long moment, Griphook examined him, and Draco felt as if he had never been looked at so closely, not even when he’d been face-to-face with bloody Voldemort himself. Though, to be fair, Voldemort had never once considered Draco to be even worthy of his attention, let alone someone for him to take seriously.

“I have your word, Draco Malfoy, that you will give me the sword of Gryffindor if I help you?”

“Yes,” Draco replied, without hesitation or waver.

“Then shake,” Griphook requested, holding out his hand. Draco took it at once and shook. He wondered whether those black eyes saw anything in his own that either improved or tarnished the goblin’s view of him as a wizard.

Then Griphook relinquished him, clapped his hands together, and said with a startling degree of energy, “So. We begin!”

It was like planning to break into the Ministry all over again. They settled down to work in the smallest bedroom, which was kept, according to Griphook’s preference, in semidarkness. “I have visited the Lestranges’ vault only once,” Griphook told them as they got started. “On the occasion I was told to place inside it the false sword. It is one of the most ancient chambers in the bank. The oldest Wizarding families store their treasures at the deepest level, where the vaults are the largest and best protected. For example, Bellatrix’s vault only became one of the Lestrange’s vaults by marriage. It can only be opened by a goblin and someone of her bloodline.” He looked to Draco then. “Only your touch can fully unlock and open the door.”

“She’s going to hate that loophole when we’re done with it,” Draco remarked, to the high amusement of Ron, who had to cover his laugh with a cough.

The four of them remained shut in the cupboard-like room for hours at a time. Slowly the days stretched into weeks; there was problem after problem to overcome, not least of which was that their store of Polyjuice Potion was greatly depleted.

“There’s really only enough left for one of us,” Hermione lamented, tilting the thick mud-like potion against the lamplight.

“That’ll be enough,” Draco assured her, who was examining Griphook’s hand-drawn map of the deepest passageways of Gringotts.

The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage could hardly fail to notice that something was going on now that Draco, Ron, and Hermione only emerged for mealtimes. Nobody asked questions, although Draco often felt Bill’s eyes on the three of them at the table, thoughtful and concerned.

The longer they spent together, the more that Draco came to realize that he really did not much like Griphook. The goblin was unexpectedly blood-thirsty, laughed at the idea of pain in lesser creatures, and seemed to relish the possibility that they might have to hurt other wizards in order to reach the Lestranges’ vault. Draco could tell that his distaste was shared by the other two, but they did not dare to discuss it: they needed Griphook too much.

The goblin ate only grudgingly with the rest of them. Even after his legs had mended, he continued to request trays of food in his room, like the still-frail Ollivander, until Bill--following an angry outburst from Fleur--went upstairs to tell him that the current arrangement could not continue.

Thereafter Griphook joined them at the over-crowded table, although he refused to eat the same food--he insisted, instead, on lumps of raw meat, roots, and various fungi. Draco felt rather responsible for the tense atmosphere: it was, after all, he who had insisted that the goblin remain at Shell Cottage so that he could question him. He also felt strongly responsible for the fact that the whole Weasley family had been driven into hiding, and that Bill, Fred, George, and Mr. Weasley could no longer work.

“I’m sorry,” he told Fleur, one blustery April evening as he helped her prepare dinner. “I never meant you to have to deal with all of this.”

She had just set some knives to work, chopping up steaks for Griphook and Bill, who had preferred his meat bloody ever since he had been attacked by Greyback. While the knives sliced away behind her, her somewhat irritable expression softened.

“Draco, ne sois pas bête. You are family to us. Nothing zat we do for you eez an inconvenience for us. Anyway,” Fleur went on, pointing her wand at a pot of sauce on the stove, which began to bubble at once, “Mr. Ollivander leaves for Muriel’s zis evening. Zat will make zings easier. Ze goblin,” she scowled a little at the mention of him, “can move downstairs, and you, Ron, and Dean can take zat room.”

“We really don’t mind sleeping in the living room,” Draco hastened to assure her, because he knew that Griphook would think poorly of having to sleep on the sofa; keeping Griphook happy was essential to their plans. “Don’t worry about us.” And when she tried to protest, he went on, “We’ll be off your hands soon too, Ron, Hermione, and I. We won’t need to be here much longer.”

“But what do you mean?” she asked, frowning at him, her wand pointing at the casserole dish now suspended in midair. “Of course you must not leave, you are safe ’ere!” She looked rather like Molly Weasley as she said it, and Draco was glad that the back door opened at that moment, interrupting them.

Luna and Dean entered, their hair damp from the rain outside and their arms full of driftwood. “...and tiny little ears,” Luna was telling him. “A bit like a hippo’s, Daddy says, only purple and hairy. And if you want to call them, you have to hum; they prefer a waltz, nothing too fast....”

Looking vaguely uncomfortable, Dean shrugged at Draco as he passed, following Luna into the combined dining and sitting room where Ron and Hermione were laying the dinner table. Seizing the chance to escape Fleur’s questions, Draco grabbed two jugs of pumpkin juice and followed them.

“...and if you ever come to our house, I’ll be able to show you the horn, Daddy wrote to me about it but I haven’t seen it yet, because the Death Eaters took me from the Hogwarts Express and I never got home for Christmas,” Luna was saying, as she and Dean relaid the fire.

“Luna, we told you,” Hermione called over to her gently. “That horn exploded. It came from an Erumpent, not a Crumple-Horned Snorkack—”

“No, it was definitely a Snorkack horn,” Luna told her serenely. “Daddy told me so. It will probably have re-formed by now, they mend themselves, you know.”

Hermione shook her head sadly and continued laying down forks as Bill appeared, leading Mr. Ollivander carefully down the stairs. The wandmaker still looked exceptionally frail, and he clung to Bill’s arm as the latter supported him, carrying a large suitcase.

“I’m going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander,” Luna said, approaching the old man to hug him.

“And I you, my dear,” Ollivander told her, patting her on the shoulder. “You were an inexpressible comfort to me in that terrible place.”

“So, au revoir, Mr. Ollivander,” Fleur said, kissing him on both cheeks in a traditional French farewell. “And I wonder whezzer you could oblige me by delivering a package to Bill’s Auntie Muriel? I never returned ’er tiara from ze wedding.”

“It will be an honor,” Ollivander assured her with a little bow. “The very least I can do in return for your generous hospitality.” Fleur drew out a worn velvet case, which she opened to show the wandmaker. The tiara sat glittering and twinkling in the light from the low-hanging lamp.

“Moonstones and diamonds,” Griphook remarked, who had sidled into the room without Draco noticing him. “Made by goblins, I think?”

“And paid for by wizards,” Bill replied quietly; the goblin shot him a look that was both furtive and challenging, but said nothing.

A strong wind gusted against the cottage windows as Bill and Ollivander set off into the night. 

The rest of them squeezed in around the table; elbow-to-elbow and with barely enough room to move, they started to eat. The fire crackled and popped in the grate beside them. Fleur, Draco noticed, was merely playing with her food; she glanced at the window every few minutes; however, Bill returned before they had finished their first course, his long hair tangled by the wind and his expression at east.

“Everything’s fine,” he assured Fleur. “Ollivander settled in fine, Mum and Dad say hello. Ginny sends you all her love. Fred and George are driving Muriel up the wall, they’re still operating an Owl-Order business out of her back room. It cheered her up to have her tiara back, though. She said she thought we’d stolen it.”

“Ah, she eez charmante, your aunt,” Fleur muttered crossly, waving her wand and causing the dirty plates to rise and form a stack in midair. She caught them and marched out of the room.

“Daddy’s made a tiara,” Luna piped up cheerily. “Well, more of a crown, really.”

Ron caught Draco and Hermione’s eyes and grinned; Draco knew that he was remembering the ludicrous headdress they had seen on their visit to Xenophilius. “Yes, he’s trying to recreate the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. He thinks he’s identified most of the main elements now. Adding the billywig wings really made a difference—”

There was a bang on the front door; everyone’s head turned toward it as they all jumped. Fleur came running out of the kitchen, looking frightened; Bill jumped to his feet, his wand pointing at the door, and Draco, Ron, and Hermione did the same. Silently Griphook slipped beneath the table, out of sight. “Who is it?” Bill called warily.

“It is I, Remus John Lupin!” called a voice over the howling wind. Draco experienced a thrill of fear; what had happened? “I am a werewolf, married to Nymphadora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come in an emergency!”

“Lupin,” Bill muttered, and he ran to the door and wrenched it open. Remus fell over the threshold. He was white-faced, wrapped in a traveling cloak, his graying hair windswept. He straightened up, looked around the room, making sure of who was there--and then he grinned widely and cried aloud, “It’s a boy! We’ve named him Ted, after Dora’s father!”

Hermione shrieked. “Wha—? Tonks—Tonks has had the baby?”

“Yes, yes, she’s had the baby!” Remus replied, beaming.

All around the table came cries of delight, sighs of relief: Hermione and Fleur both squealed, “Congratulations!” and Ron said, “Blimey, a baby!” as if he had never heard of such a thing before.

“Yes—yes—a boy,” Remus said again, seeming quite dazed by his own happiness. He strode around the table through the forest of hands reaching out to clap him on the back, and hugged Draco tightly before drawing back to meet his eyes. “You’ll be godfather?” he asked as he released him.

“What--? Me?” Draco gasped.

“You, yes, of course—Dora quite agrees, no one better—”

“I—well, yes—I didn’t—” Draco felt overwhelmed, astonished, delighted, and utterly speechless. Now Bill was hurrying to fetch wine, and Fleur was persuading Remus to join them for a drink.

“I can’t stay long, I must get back,” Remus answered, smiling helplessly around at them all. He looked years younger than Draco had ever seen him. “Thank you, thank you, Bill.” Bill had soon filled all of their goblets, they stood and raised them high in a toast.

“To Teddy Remus Lupin,” Remus cried, “A great wizard in the making!”

“’Oo does ’e look like?” Fleur inquired.

“I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like me. Not much hair. It looked black when he was born, but I swear it’s turned ginger in the hour since. Probably be blond by the time I get back. Andromeda says Tonks’s hair started changing color the day that she was born.” He drained his goblet. “Oh, go on then, just one more,” he added, laughing, as Bill made to fill it again.

The wind buffeted the little cottage and the fire leapt and crackled, and Bill was soon opening another bottle of wine. Remus’ news seemed to have taken them all out of themselves, removed them for a while from their state of siege: Tidings of new life were exhilarating. Only the goblin seemed untouched by the suddenly festive atmosphere, and after a while he slunk back to the bedroom he now occupied alone. Draco thought that he was the only one who had noticed this, until he saw Bill’s eyes following the goblin up the stairs.

“No...no...I really must get back,” Remus said at last, chuckling and declining yet another goblet of wine. He got to his feet and pulled his traveling cloak back around himself. “Goodbye, goodbye all—I’ll try and bring some pictures in a few days’ time—they’ll all be so glad to know that I’ve seen you all—”

“Oh--Remus, wait, I, there’s something else,” Draco said, catching his attention. “Have you, I assume that you’re able to contact Sirius?” When the older man nodded, surprised, Draco sighed. “Well--look, can you pass word on to him? I  _ think _ he helped us out...I think he’s the one who sent Dobby to help us, before he came here.” Draco swallowed hard; in his peripheral vision, he could see Ron and Hermione watching him, grave and understanding. “He--Bellatrix Lestrange killed him, as we were escaping. Just...let Sirius know. He’s buried here, if Sirius ever wants to come see him, later.”

Remus’ face fell a little, and he nodded solemnly, reaching out to clasp Draco’s shoulder gently. “I’ll tell him. Dobby was, indeed, staying with him and Kreacher, now that Hogwarts is...well, not so safe, for loyalists to our cause.” He squeezed his fingers gently. “I’m so sorry.” He fastened his cloak and made his final farewells, hugging the women and grasping hands with the men, and then he returned into the wild night.

“Godfather, Draco!” Bill said genially as they walked into the kitchen together, helping clear the table, and Draco grinned shyly. “A real honor! Congratulations!”

“I’m a little surprised,” Draco admitted. “I figured he would have asked Sirius to stand in as godfather.”

Bill’s smile turned a bit bittersweet. “He probably would have. But I think Sirius would have declined. Being godfather for Harry, and losing him so soon, he probably wouldn’t have been ready for that responsibility again.”

As Draco set down the empty goblets he was carrying, Bill pulled the kitchen door behind him closed, shutting out the still-voluble voices of the others, who were continuing to celebrate even in Remus’ absence. “I wanted a private word, actually, Draco,” Bill told him more quietly. “It hasn’t been easy to get an opportunity with the cottage this full of people.” Bill hesitated. “Draco, you’re planning something with Griphook. You, and Ron and Hermione.”

It was a statement, not a question, and so Draco did not bother to deny it. He merely looked at Bill, waiting. “I know goblins,” Bill continued. “I’ve worked for Gringotts ever since I left Hogwarts. As far as there can be friendship between wizards and goblins, I have goblin friends—or, at least, goblins I know well, and like.”

Again, Bill hesitated. “Draco, what do you want from Griphook, and what have you promised him in return?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Draco told him simply. “I’m sorry, Bill.”

The kitchen door opened behind them; Fleur was trying to bring through more empty goblets. “Wait, please,” Bill told her. “Just a moment.”

She backed out obligingly, and he closed the door again. “Then I have to say this,” Bill went on. “If you have struck any kind of bargain with Griphook, and most particularly if that bargain involves treasure, you must be exceptionally careful. Goblin notions of ownership, payment, and repayment are not the same as human ones.”

Draco frowned; although he and Griphook had come to what he deemed a fair and seemingly mutually-understood and accepted agreement, he did want to ensure that he fully grasped the stakes that he was working with. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“We are talking about a different breed of being,” Bill said quietly. “Dealings between wizards and goblins have been fraught for centuries—but you’ll know all that from History of Magic.” Draco nodded, though that class was hardly one of Hogwarts’ most riveting.

“There has been fault on both sides, I would never claim that wizards have been innocent,” Bill continued. “However, there is a belief among some goblins, and those at Gringotts are perhaps most prone to it, that wizards cannot be trusted in matters of gold and treasure, that they have no respect for goblin ownership.”

“I respect—” Draco began, frowning, but Bill shook his head to stop him.

“You don’t understand, Draco, nobody could understand unless they have lived with goblins. To a goblin, the rightful and true master of any object is the maker, not the purchaser. All goblin-made objects are, in goblin eyes, rightfully theirs.”

“But if it was purchased, paid for—”

“—then they would consider it rented by the one who had paid the money. They have, however, great difficulty with the idea of goblin-made objects passing from wizard to wizard. You saw Griphook’s face when the tiara passed under his eyes. He disapproves of such transactions. I believe he thinks, as do the fiercest of his kind, that it ought to have been returned to the goblins once the original purchaser died. They consider our habit of keeping goblin-made objects, passing them from wizard to wizard without further payment, little more than theft.”

Draco processed all of this very carefully, and then nodded slowly to indicate that he was hearing Bill loud and clearly. “All I am saying,” Bill finished, setting his hand on the door back into the sitting room, “...is to be very careful what you promise goblins, Draco. It would be less dangerous to break into Gringotts than to renege on a promise to a goblin.”

“Understood,” Draco replied as Bill opened the door. “Thank you, Bill. I’ll bear it in mind.” As he followed Bill back to the others, Draco felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle, the same way that they had when he and Ron and Hermione had first gotten into the Ministry, and Draco had been confronted by the huge reality of how under-prepared they had been for that mission.

Again, he wondered if all of the planning in the world was actually going to make them ready--or if they were once more going to plunge into the deep end with nothing but their wits, a desperate hope, and each other.


	41. Land Just Where You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Voldemort would know, at last, that they were hunting for his Horcruxes.”

Their plans were made, their preparations complete; on the day they had chosen, they were awake and ready to leave by six in the morning. The sun rose over the sea, spilling soft rose-gold sunlight into the smallest bedroom where they gathered in order to set out. A single long, coarse black hair had been plucked from the sweater Hermione had been wearing at Malfoy Manor, and now lay curled in a small glass vial on the mantelpiece.

They’d faced a brief dilemma over the wand situation; they did not still have Bellatrix’s, since she had reclaimed it before their escape, and Griphook had warned them that admission to the vaults would require presentation of a wand. That meant that Hermione could not use her own, because the goblins would possibly know it, and they wouldn’t exactly admit a Bellatrix who was carrying the wand of  _ Undesirable Number One. _

The solution--not ideal, but the only one that they had--was when Ron realized that he had come away from Malfoy Manor with two wands. He had his own; and when he had snatched it back from Greyback, he had also grabbed Wormtail’s out of the werewolf’s claws.

It was chestnut with a dragon heartstring, a decent length and a little brittle, and because its former owner was dead, it yielded to Hermione fairly well.

“Best we can do,” Draco conceded in the end. “He was on their side, so it will be  _ less _ confusing for you to be seen using it...we’ll just have to have a lie ready if they ask why you’re not carrying your--her--own. But this is better than you using  _ your _ actual wand.”

The door of the bedroom opened and Griphook entered, dressed and now fully rehabilitated and able to walk properly. Draco nodded at him in greeting. “We’ve just been checking the last-minute stuff, Griphook. We’ve told Bill and Fleur we’re leaving tomorrow, and we’ve told them not to get up to see us off.”

They had been firm on this point, because Hermione would need to transform into Bellatrix before they left, and the less that Bill and Fleur knew or suspected about what they were about to do, the better. They had also explained that they would not be returning.

As they had lost Perkins’s old tent on the night that the Snatchers caught them, Bill had lent them another one. It was now packed inside the beaded bag, along with the rest of their possessions--and, thanks to Fleur, a good amount of non-perishable and travel-proof provisions. Hunger and scavenging would be problems of the past, now.

Though he would miss Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean, and the many home comforts that they had enjoyed over the last few weeks, Draco was looking forward to escaping the confinement of Shell Cottage. He was tired of trying to make sure that they were not overheard, and tired of being shut in a tiny, dark bedroom.

It was time to resume their work, and he was more than ready to get down to it.

Hermione went to add the hair to the Polyjuice Potion and transform, and Griphook followed her downstairs to have a small breakfast. Making sure that they had everything, Ron and Draco finally made their way out into the garden to join them.

Draco glanced up at the stars that were fading from view in the brightening sky and listened to the sea washing backward and forward against the cliff; he was going to miss that sound. He paused beside Dobby’s grave, and smiled when he noticed that small green shoots were already forcing their way up through the red earth that covered the little elf; in a year’s time the mound would be covered in flowers. The white stone that bore the elf ’s name had already acquired a weathered look.

He thought of his childhood, playing in the far more elaborate and cultivated gardens around Malfoy Manor with Dobby and other elves popping in and out of the house to attend to him. Somehow, Draco knew right then that Dobby would not have wanted to be buried anywhere else but this beautiful place. It made his heart ache to leave the elf behind...but this was the right spot to do it.

The sound of a door opening made him look around; Bellatrix Lestrange was striding across the lawn towards them, accompanied by Griphook. As she walked, she tucked the small, beaded bag into the inside pocket of another set of the old robes they had taken from Grimmauld Place.

Though Draco knew perfectly well that it was really Hermione, he could not suppress a shiver of loathing at the sight of his aunt’s face. She was taller than he was now, her long black hair rippling down her back, her heavily lidded eyes disdainful as they rested upon him; but then she spoke, and he heard Hermione through Bellatrix’s low voice. “She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots!”

Her misery was apparent, and it pushed sympathy over the dislike that Draco felt for her current form. He reached out to take her hand, glad to see her smile faintly back at him, comforted by the touch. “Don’t worry,” Draco assured her. “You’re still very much yourself--I can see you in there.”

She drew a bolstering breath, then nodded, straightening her shoulders. “Okay, Ron, come here so I can do you....”

“Right, but remember, I don’t like the beard too long—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking handsome—”

“It’s not that, it gets in the way! But I liked my nose a bit shorter, try and do it the way you did last time.” Hermione sighed and set to work, muttering under her breath as she transformed various aspects of Ron’s appearance. He was to be given a completely fake identity, and they were trusting the malevolent aura cast by Bellatrix to protect him. Meanwhile, Draco and Griphook were to be concealed under the Invisibility Cloak.

“There,” Hermione said at last. “What do you think, Draco?

It was just possible to discern Ron under his disguise--but only, Draco thought, because he knew him so well. Ron’s hair was now long and wavy; he had a thick brown beard and mustache, no freckles, a short, broad nose, and heavy eyebrows. “Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do,” Draco replied, smirking, and Hermione giggled appreciatively. “Shall we go, then?”

All three of them glanced back at Shell Cottage, lying dark and silent under the pale blue sky; then they turned and began to walk toward the point, just beyond the boundary wall, where the Fidelius Charm stopped working and they would be able to Disapparate.

Once past the gate, Griphook spoke. “I should climb up now, Draco Malfoy, I think?” Draco bent down compliantly and the goblin clambered onto his back, his hands linked in front of Draco’s throat. He was not heavy, but Draco disliked the feeling of the goblin and the surprising strength with which he clung on. Hermione pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of the beaded bag and threw it over them both. “Perfect,” she said, bending down to check Draco’s feet. “I can’t see a thing. Let’s go.”

Draco turned on the spot, with Griphook on his shoulders, concentrating with all his might on the Leaky Cauldron. The goblin clung even tighter as they moved into the compressing darkness, and seconds later Draco’s feet found pavement; he opened his eyes to see Charing Cross Road.

Muggles bustled past wearing the hangdog expressions of early morning, quite unconscious of the little magical inn’s existence. The bar of the Leaky Cauldron was nearly deserted. Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, was polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far corner glanced at Hermione, stilled, and then drew back into the shadows.

“Madam Lestrange,” Tom murmured, and as Hermione passed he inclined his head subserviently.

“Good morning,” Hermione replied, and as Draco and Griphook crept past, he saw Tom look surprised as he watched her walk away. “Too polite,” Draco whispered into Hermione's ear as they passed out of the inn into the tiny backyard. “You need to treat people like they’re scum!”

“Oh--okay, right!” Hermione drew out Wormtail’s wand and tapped a brick in the nondescript wall in front of them. At once the bricks began to whirl and spin; a hole appeared in the middle of them, which grew wider and wider, finally forming an archway onto the narrow cobbled street that was Diagon Alley.

It was quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and there were hardly any shoppers abroad. The crooked, cobbled street was drastically altered now from the bustling place that Draco had visited before every term at Hogwarts, across the years; more shops than ever were boarded up, though several new establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts had been created since his last visit. Hermione’s face stared down at them from posters plastered over many windows, always captioned with the words  _ Undesirable Number One _ . Newer, less rumpled and creased posters adding Ron as  _ Number Two _ were scattered among them, now including the  _ wanted _ label; they’d clearly deemed him not sick at home, and therefore a fugitive as well.

Both posters also had fresh, red-inked words added to the remarks that Draco had seen on them before, and he moved closer to the wall just long enough to let his eyes run over them without actually stopping. Each now also bore the added note that they were additionally wanted for being known associates and companions of the fugitive known as the Dragon.

Smirking, Draco moved back to walking at Ron and Hermione’s backs. So he really had become the new face of the resistance.  _ Good. _

A number of ragged people sat huddled in various doorways. He heard them moaning to the few passersby, pleading for gold, insisting that they were really wizards. One man had a bloody bandage over his eye. As they set off along the street, the beggars glimpsed Hermione, and they seemed to melt away before her, drawing hoods over their faces and fleeing as fast as they could. Hermione looked after them curiously, until the man with the bloodied bandage came staggering right across her path.

“My children!” he bellowed, pointing at her with a shaking hand. His voice was cracked, high-pitched; he sounded distraught and nearly insane. “Where are my children? What has he done with them? You know, you know!”

“I—I really—” Hermione stammered, and Draco winced as she lost any semblance of her composure pretending to be Bellatrix.

The man lunged at her, reaching for her throat: Then, with a bang and a burst of red light he was thrown backward onto the ground, unconscious. Ron stood there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock visible behind his beard. Faces appeared at the windows on either side of the street, while a little knot of prosperous-looking passersby gathered their robes about them and broke into gentle trots, keen to vacate the scene.

Their entrance into Diagon Alley could hardly have been more conspicuous; for a moment Draco wondered whether it might not be better to leave now and try to think of a different plan. Before they could move on or consult one another, however, they heard a call from behind them. “Why, Madam Lestrange!”

Draco twisted around, and Griphook tightened his hold around Draco’s neck to stay in place. A tall, thin wizard with a crown of bushy gray hair and a long, sharp nose was striding towards them. “It’s Travers,” hissed the goblin into Draco’s ear, and Draco tensed; Travers was one of the more savagery-prone Death Eaters. He had been one of the two to come to the Lovegood house, too, so he was more likely to be in the know about what little information the Death Eaters had on the Dragon.

Hermione had drawn herself up to her fullest height and said with as much contempt as she could muster: “And what do you want?”

Travers stopped in his tracks, clearly affronted. “He’s another Death Eater!” breathed Griphook, and Draco sidled sideways to repeat the information into Hermione’s ear.

“I merely sought to greet you,” Travers replied coolly. “But if my presence is not welcome...”

“No, no, not at all, Travers,” Hermione said quickly, trying to cover up her mistake. “How are you?”

“Well, I confess I am surprised to see you out and about, Bellatrix.”

“Really? Why?” Hermione asked, wavering between haughty and uncertain.

“Well,” Travers said with some delicacy. “I heard that the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the...ah...escape.”

_ Oh, Merlin.  _ Draco willed Hermione to keep her head. If this was true, and Bellatrix was not supposed to be out in public after losing him and Ron and Hermione— “The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past,” Hermione said in a magnificent imitation of Bellatrix’s most contemptuous manner. “Perhaps your credit is not as good with him as mine is, Travers.”

Though the Death Eater looked mildly offended, he also seemed less suspicious. He glanced down at the man Ron had just Stunned. “How did it offend you?”

“It does not matter, it will not do so again,” Hermione replied coolly, and Draco wanted to kiss her for how admirably she was managing this performance. It was only because he knew and loved her so deeply that he could see the tremors rippling through her body.

“Some of these wandless can be troublesome,” Travers remarked. “While they do nothing but beg I have no objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead her case at the Ministry last week. ‘I’m a witch, sir, I’m a witch, let me prove it to you!’” he said in a squeaky impersonation. “As if I was going to give her my wand—but wait,” Travers changed tracks, his tone curious. “I see that you are not using your own wand, Bellatrix?” He nodded at the wand hanging limply in her hand at her side.

It was the moment that Draco had warned her to be ready for--and his lover did not disappoint. “Indeed--the Dark Lord had need of mine,” Hermione said with impressive pompousness, holding up Petttigrew’s wand and making a slight face of disdain. “I have made due by borrowing Wormtail’s, wretched though he is. I cannot be completely without a wand after all--I am not in such dire straits as my brother-in-law.”

She was  _ brilliant,  _ and Draco was in genuine awe. The excuse was perfect, blending facts that only the Death Eaters would know--that Lucius had been stripped of his wand, and that Wormtail was serving at the Manor--with a contempt that only Bellatrix could radiate in voicing the information.

Travers seemed to finally and fully buy the act, and now he turned to Ron. “Who is your friend? I do not recognize him.”

“This is Dragomir Despard,” Hermione replied; they had decided that a fictional foreigner was the safest cover for Ron to assume. “He speaks very little English, but he is in sympathy with the Dark Lord’s aims. He has traveled here from Transylvania to see our new regime.”

“Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?”

“’Ow you?” Ron asked, holding out his hand. Travers extended two fingers and shook Ron’s hand as though frightened of dirtying himself.

“So what brings you and your—ah—sympathetic friend to Diagon Alley this early in the day?” he asked, returning his attention to Hermione.

“I need to visit Gringotts,” Hermione replied.

“Alas, I also,” Travers chuckled. “Gold, filthy gold! We cannot live without it, yet I confess I deplore the necessity of consorting with our long-fingered friends.” Draco felt Griphook’s clasped hands tighten momentarily around his neck. “Shall we?” Travers added, gesturing Hermione forward.

Hermione had no choice but to fall into step beside him and head along the crooked, cobbled street toward the place where the snowy-white Gringotts stood towering over the other little shops. Ron sloped along beside them, and Draco and Griphook followed. A watchful Death Eater was the very last thing they needed; and worse, with Travers matching Hermione’s stride, there was no means for Draco to get close enough to communicate with her or Ron.

All too soon they arrived at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the great bronze doors. As Griphook had already warned them, the liveried goblins who usually flanked the entrance had been replaced by two wizards, both of whom were clutching long thin golden rods.

“Ah, Probity Probes,” Travers sighed theatrically. “So crude—but effective!” And he set off up the steps, nodding left and right to the wizards, who raised the golden rods and passed them up and down his body. The Probes, Draco knew, detected spells of concealment and hidden magical objects. Knowing that he had only seconds; Draco pointed his wand at each of the guards in turn and murmured “Confundo” twice, as they had planned.

Unnoticed by Travers, who was looking through the bronze doors at the inner hall, each of the guards gave a little start as the spells hit them. Hermione’s long black hair rippled behind her as she climbed the steps. “One moment, madam,” said the guard, raising his Probe.

“But you’ve just done that!” Hermione declared in Bellatrix’s commanding, arrogant voice.

Travers looked around, eyebrows raised. The guard was confused. He stared down at the thin golden Probe and then at his companion, who said in a slightly dazed voice, “Yeah, you’ve just checked them, Marius.”

Hermione swept forward, Ron by her side, and Draco and Griphook trotting invisibly behind them. Two goblins stood before the inner doors, which were made of silver and carried the poem warning of dire retribution to potential thieves; Draco barely glanced up at the lettering as he passed beneath it.

Within seconds they were standing in the vast marble hall of the bank. The long counter was manned by goblins sitting on high stools, serving the first customers of the day. Hermione, Ron, and Travers headed toward an old goblin who was examining a thick gold coin through an eyeglass. Hermione allowed Travers to step ahead of her on the pretext of explaining the features of the hall to Ron.

The goblin tossed the coin he was holding aside, said to nobody in particular, “Leprechaun,” and then greeted Travers, who passed over a tiny golden key, which was examined and given back to him before Hermione stepped forward. “Madam Lestrange!” said the goblin, evidently startled. “Dear me! How—how may I help you today?”

“I wish to enter my vault,” Hermione replied imperiously.

The old goblin seemed to recoil a little. Draco glanced around. Not only was Travers hanging back, watching, but several other goblins had looked up from their work to stare at Hermione. “You have...identification?” asked the goblin.

“Identification? I—I have never been asked for identification before!” Hermione retorted.

“They know!” Griphook whispered into Draco’s ear. “They must have been warned there might be an impostor!”

“Your wand will do, madam,” the goblin said, and he held out a slightly trembling hand. Draco narrowed his eyes, wondering whether it would be better or worse for them that Hermione did not have Bellatrix’s own wand to present.

“Act now, act now,” Griphook hissed to him. “Use the Imperius Curse!” Draco raised his wand beneath the cloak, pointed it at the older goblin, and whispered, for the first time in his life, “Imperio!” A curious sensation shot down his arm, a feeling of tingling warmth that seemed to flow from his mind, down the sinews and veins connecting him to the wand and the curse it had just cast.

The goblin took Wormtail’s wand, examined it closely, and then said, “Ah, yes, your wand--a very beautiful piece indeed, Madam Lestrange.”

“What?” Travers asked, approaching the counter again; now the goblins all around them were watching. “I thought that you had borrowed that mousy little servant’s wand, Bellatrix? This one is not your own--”

Draco acted without thinking, not wanting to strand Hermione dealing with the spiraling situation: pointing his wand at Travers, he muttered, “Imperio!” once more.

“Oh yes, I see now,” Travers sait at once, looking down at Bellatrix’s wand, “Yes, very impressive. Walnut is a very hardy, good wood, makes for some of the best wands, don’t you think?”

Hermione looked utterly bewildered, but to Draco’s enormous relief she accepted the bizarre turn of events without comment. The old goblin behind the counter clapped his hands and a younger goblin approached. “I shall need the Clankers,” he told the newcomer, who dashed away and returned a moment later with a leather bag that seemed to be full of jangling metal, which he handed to his senior. “Good, good! So, if you will follow me, Madam Lestrange,” said the old goblin hopping down off his stool and vanishing from sight, “I shall take you to your vault.”

He appeared around the end of the counter, jogging happily toward them, the contents of the leather bag still jingling. Travers was now standing quite still with his mouth hanging wide open. Ron was drawing attention to this odd phenomenon by regarding Travers with confusion.

“Wait—Bogrod!” Another goblin came scurrying around the counter. “We have instructions,” he said with a bow to Hermione. “Forgive me, Madam, but there have been special orders regarding the vault of Lestrange.” He whispered urgently in Bogrod’s ear, but the Imperiused goblin shook him off.

“I am aware of the instructions. Madam Lestrange wishes to visit her vault....very old family...old clients...right this way, please...” And, still clanking, he hurried toward one of the many doors leading off the hall. Draco looked back at Travers, who was still rooted to the spot looking abnormally vacant, and made his decision: With a flick of his wand he made Travers come with them, walking meekly in their wake as they reached the door and passed into the rough stone passageway beyond, which was lit with flaming torches.

“We’re in trouble; they suspect us,” Draco stated as the door slammed behind them, and he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak; Griphook jumped down from his shoulders. Neither Travers nor Bogrod showed the slightest surprise at the sudden appearance of Draco Malfoy in their midst, or their runaway former comrade.

“They’re Imperiused,” he added, in response to Hermione and Ron’s stunned queries about Travers and Bogrod, who were both now standing there looking blank. “I don’t think I did it strongly enough, I don’t know....” Another memory darted through his mind--of the shadowy Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, and Voldemort’s sibilant voice as he’s taunted and provoked Sirius, telling him that he really had  _ mean _ it when he had tried to use an Unforgivable Curse against Bellatrix.

“What do we do?” Ron asked, and Draco shook himself; he’d have to trust his own abilities, and pray that Travers and Bogrod remained under the Imperius Curse’s influence. “Shall we get out now, while we can?”

“If we can,” Hermione said fretfully, looking back toward the door into the main hall, beyond which who knew what was happening.

“We’ve got this far, I say we go on,” Draco said bracingly.

“Good!” Griphook said firmly, starting to trot towards the tracks. “So, we need Bogrod to control the cart; I no longer have the authority. But there will not be room for the additional wizard.”

Draco nodded and pointed his wand at Travers. “Imperio!” The wizard turned and set off along the dark track at a smart pace.

“What are you making him do?” Hermione asked curiously, watching the Death Eater’s tall figure disappear.

“Hide,” Draco replied as he pointed his wand at Bogrod, who whistled to summon a little cart that came trundling along the tracks toward them out of the darkness. Draco was sure that he could hear shouting behind them in the main hall as they all clambered into it, Bogrod in front with Griphook, and Draco, Ron, and Hermione crammed together in the back. With a jerk, the cart moved off, gathering speed: They hurtled past Travers, who was wriggling into a crack in the wall, then the cart began twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward all the time.

Draco could not hear anything over the rattling of the cart on the tracks. His hair flew behind him as they swerved between stalactites, flying ever deeper into the earth; but he kept glancing backwards uneasily. They might as well have left enormous footprints behind them; the more he thought about it, the more foolish it seemed to have disguised Hermione as Bellatrix.

They were deeper than Draco had ever penetrated within Gringotts; the Malfoys’ vault was substantially higher, though still among those that were deemed the most magnificent and most well-protected. They took a hairpin bend at speed and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a waterfall pounding over the track.

Draco heard Griphook shout, “No!” but there was no braking. They zoomed right through it. Water filled Draco’s eyes and mouth; he could not see or breathe.

Then, with an awful lurch, the cart flipped over and they were all thrown out of it. Draco heard the cart smash into pieces against the passage wall; Hermione shrieked something; and he felt himself glide back toward the ground as though weightless, landing painlessly on the rocky passage floor.

“C-Cushioning Charm,” Hermione spluttered, as Ron helped her to her feet. To Draco’s horror, he saw that she was no longer Bellatrix; instead she stood there wearing overlarge robes, sopping wet and completely herself. Ron, too, was red-haired and beardless again, transformed back to his true appearance. They were realizing it too as they looked at each other, feeling their own faces.

“The Thief ’s Downfall!” Griphook growled, clambering to his feet and looking back up at the deluge onto the tracks, which, Draco knew now, had been more than just water. “It washes away all enchantment, all magical concealment! They know that there are impostors in Gringotts, they have set off defenses against us!”

Draco saw Hermione checking that she still had the beaded bag, and hurriedly thrust his own hand under his jacket to make sure he had not lost the Invisibility Cloak. Then he turned to see Bogrod shaking his head in bewilderment; it seemed that the Thief ’s Downfall had lifted the Imperius Curse from him.

“We need him,” Griphook said quickly. “We cannot enter the vault without an active Gringotts goblin. And we need the Clankers!”

“Imperio!” Draco said again; his voice echoed through the stone passage as he again felt the sense of heady control that flowed from brain to wand. Bogrod submitted once more to his will, his befuddled expression changing to one of polite indifference, as Ron hurried to pick up the leather bag of metal tools.

“Draco, I think I can hear people coming!” Hermione gasped, and she pointed Wormtail’s wand at the waterfall and cried, “Protego!” They saw the Shield Charm break the flow of enchanted water as it flew up the passageway.

“Good thinking,” Draco muttered. “Lead the way, Griphook!”

“How are we going to get out again?” Ron asked as they hurried on foot into the darkness after the goblin, Bogrod panting in their wake like an old dog.

“Let’s worry about that when we have to,” Draco said breathlessly. He was trying to listen: he thought he could hear something clanking and moving around nearby. “Griphook, how much farther?”

“Not far, Draco Malfoy, not far...” And they turned a corner and saw the thing for which Draco had been prepared, but which still brought all of them to a grinding halt.

A gigantic dragon was tethered to the ground in front of them, barring access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the place. The beast’s scales had turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground; its eyes were milkily pink; both rear legs bore heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked wings, folded close to its body, would have filled the chamber if it spread them, and when it turned its ugly head toward them, it roared with a noise that made the rock tremble, opened its mouth, and spat a jet of fire that sent them running back up the passageway.

“It is partially blind,” Griphook panted as they paused, “But even more savage for that. However, we have the means to control it. It has learned what to expect when the Clankers come. Give them to me.” Ron passed the bag to Griphook, and the goblin pulled out a number of small metal instruments that when shaken made a loud, ringing noise like miniature hammers on anvils. Griphook handed them out: Bogrod accepted his meekly.

“You know what to do,” Griphook told Draco, Ron, and Hermione. “It will expect pain when it hears the noise: It will retreat, and Bogrod must place his palm upon the door of the vault.” They advanced around the corner again, shaking the Clankers, and the noise echoed off the rocky walls, grossly magnified, so that the inside of Draco’s skull seemed to vibrate with the din.

The dragon let out another hoarse roar, more enraged, then retreated. Draco could see it trembling, and as they drew nearer he saw the scars made by vicious slashes across its face, and guessed that it had been taught to fear hot swords when it heard the sound of the Clankers.

“That is barbaric,” Hermione grumbled, but Griphook paid her no mind. Draco shot her a nod, agreeing, but they did not have time to dwell on it.

“Make him press his hand to the door!” Griphook urged Draco, who obediently turned his wand again upon Bogrod. “And when he does, place yours as well!” The old goblin obeyed, stepping forward and pressing his palm to the wood alongside Draco’s own.

The door of the vault melted away to reveal a cavelike opening crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armor, the skins of strange creatures—some with long spines, others with drooping wings—potions in jeweled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown. “Search, fast!” Draco called as they all hurried inside the vault.

He had described Hufflepuff ’s cup to Ron and Hermione--but if it was the other, unknown Horcrux that resided in this vault, then he did not know what it was or what it looked like. He barely had time to glance around, however, before there was a muffled clunk from behind them: the door had reappeared, sealing them inside the vault, and they were plunged into total darkness.

“No matter, Bogrod will be able to release us!” Griphook said, as Ron gave a shout of surprise. “Light your wands, can’t you? And hurry, we have very little time!”

“Lumos!” Draco shone his lit wand around the vault. Its beam fell upon glittering jewels; he saw the fake sword of Gryffindor lying on a high shelf amongst a jumble of chains. Ron and Hermione had lit their wands too, and were now examining the piles of objects surrounding them.

“Could, could this be—? Aargh!” Hermione screamed in pain, and Draco twisted toward her worriedly, turning his wandlight on her in time to see a jeweled goblet tumbling from her grip. But as it fell, it split, becoming a shower of goblets, so that a second later, with a great clatter, the floor was covered in identical cups rolling in every direction, the original impossible to discern amongst them. “It burned me!” Hermione moaned, sucking her blistered fingers.

“They have added Gemino and Flagrante Curses!” Griphook hissed. “Everything you touch will burn and multiply, but the copies are worthless—and if you continue to handle the treasure, you will eventually be crushed to death by the weight of expanding gold!”

“Okay, right--so don’t touch anything!” Draco said desperately, but even as he said it, Ron accidentally nudged one of the fallen goblets with his foot, and twenty more exploded into being while Ron hopped on the spot, part of his shoe burned away by contact with the hot metal.

“Stand still, don’t move!” Hermione yelped, clutching at Ron. “Just look around! The cup’s small and gold, it’s got a badger engraved on it, two handles—otherwise see if you can spot Ravenclaw’s symbol anywhere, the eagle—”

They directed their wands in every direction possible, turning cautiously on the spot. It was impossible not to brush up against anything, thought; Draco sent a great cascade of fake Galleons onto the ground where they joined the goblets, and now there was scarcely room to place their feet, and the glowing gold blazed with heat, so that the vault felt more and more like a furnace.

Draco’s wandlight passed over shields and goblin-made helmets set on shelves rising to the ceiling; higher and higher he raised the beam, until suddenly it landed upon an object that made his heart skip and his hand tremble. “It’s there, it’s up there!”

Ron and Hermione pointed their wands at it too, so that the little golden cup sparkled in a three-way spotlight: the cup that had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, which had passed into the possession of Hepzibah Smith, from whom it had been stolen by Tom Riddle.

“And how the hell are we going to get up there without touching anything?” Ron asked desperately.

“Accio Cup!” Hermione cried, who had evidently forgotten in her panic what Griphook had told them during their planning sessions.

“No use, no use!” snarled the goblin.

“Here--Hermione, the sword, give it here!” Draco called out, reaching out with caution to avoid absolutely any other treasure. Hermione fumbled inside her robes, drew out the beaded bag, rummaged for a few seconds, then removed the shining sword. Draco seized it by its rubied hilt and touched the tip of the blade to a silver flagon nearby; it did not multiply. “If I can just poke the sword through a handle—but how am I going to get up there?”

The shelf on which the cup was reposed was out of reach for any of them, even Ron, who was the tallest. The heat from the enchanted treasure rose in waves, and sweat ran down Draco’s face and back as he struggled to think of a way up to the cup; and then he heard the dragon roar on the other side of the vault door, and the sound of clanking growing louder and louder.

They were truly trapped now: there was no way out except through the door, and a horde of goblins seemed to be approaching on the other side. Draco looked at Ron and Hermione and saw terror in their faces. “Hermione,” Draco said as the clanking grew louder, struggling to remain calm, and to ground the other two. “I’ve got to get up there, we’ve got to get rid of it—”

She raised her wand, pointed it at him, and whispered, “Levicorpus.” Hoisted into the air by his ankle, Draco hit a suit of armor and replicas burst out of it like white-hot bodies, filling the cramped space.

With screams of pain, Ron, Hermione, and the two goblins were knocked aside into other objects, which also began to replicate. Half-buried in a rising tide of red-hot treasure, they struggled and yelled as Draco thrust the sword through the handle of Hufflepuff ’s cup, hooking it onto the blade. “Impervius!” Hermione managed to screech, in an attempt to protect herself, Ron, and the goblins from the wave of burning metal.

Then the worst scream yet made Draco look back down: Ron and Hermione were waist-deep in treasure, struggling to keep Bogrod from slipping beneath the rising tide, but Griphook had sunk out of sight and nothing but the tips of a few long fingers were left in view. Draco seized Griphook’s fingers and pulled; the blistered goblin emerged by degrees, howling. “Liberacorpus!” Draco yelled, and with a crash he and Griphook landed on the surface of the swelling treasure, and the sword flew out of Draco’s hand.

“Get it!” Draco cried, fighting the pain of the hot metal on his skin, as Griphook clambered onto his shoulders again, determined to avoid the swelling mass of red-hot objects. “Where’s the sword? It had the cup on it!”

The clanking on the other side of the door was growing deafening—it was too late—

“There!” It was Griphook who had seen it and Griphook who lunged. Catching sight of the goblin’s expression, Draco suddenly knew with crystalline clarity that Griphook had never intended to keep his word, or respect the bargain that they’d made. He could not possibly blame his lack of integrity on them, for Draco had been explicit and clear about the hazy duration of their need for the sword.

But seeing the malicious, satisfied gleam on Griphook’s face at that instant, Draco knew that the bastard had shaken his hand with no plans to allow them to leave with the sword after this mission was complete.

One of Griphook’s hands was holding tightly to a fistful of Draco’s hair, to make sure he did not fall into the heaving sea of burning gold; Griphook seized the hilt of the sword and swung it high out of Draco’s reach. The tiny golden cup, skewered by the handle on the sword’s blade, was flung into the air. Draco dove and caught it, and although he could feel it scalding his flesh he did not relinquish it, even while countless Hufflepuff cups burst from his fist, raining down upon him as the entrance of the vault opened up again and he found himself sliding uncontrollably on an expanding avalanche of fiery gold and silver that bore him, Ron, and Hermione into the outer chamber.

Hardly aware of the pain from the burns covering his body, and still borne along on the swell of replicating treasure, Draco shoved the cup into his pocket and reached up to retrieve the sword--but Griphook was gone. Draco twisted in place, and with a surge of righteous rage he spotted the treacherous goblin, now free of the tidal wave of gold and running flat-out away from the vault, right past the Gringotts goblins and security wizards, the sword still in his hand.

It was foolish, utterly, and pointless. And yet, in a burst of fury that Griphook had double-crossed him--and wasn’t it ironic, that Bill had said the goblin would expect it from  _ them, _ that his kind was not forgiving of sneakery or secrecy--Draco raised his wand, snarling,  _ “Stupefy!” _

Above the bobbing heads of the goblins swarming towards them, Draco watched with numb shock as his spell struck Griphook between his shoulders, knocking him unconscious--and causing him to pitch forward, unable to catch himself or cry out for help. Without a sound, he tumbled right over the edge of the rocky pathway and into the bottomless caverns of Gringotts’ deepest depths, taking the sword of Gryffindor with him.

Draco’s thorough distraction had finally loosened the hold of the Imperius Curse upon Bogrod, as well, and he came to himself again. Seeing what was happening and finding himself covered in burns from the duplicating treasure, the old goblin shrieked and then scurried out among his fellows, crying, “Thieves! Thieves! Help! Thieves!”

Slipping on the hot metal, Draco struggled to his feet; he knew that the only way out was through. “Stupefy!” he shouted again, and Ron and Hermione joined in: Jets of red light flew into the crowd of goblins, and some toppled over, but others advanced, and Draco saw several more wizard guards running around the corner.

The tethered dragon let out a savage roar, and a gush of flame flew over the goblins. The wizards fled at that, doubled-up, back the way they had come. Huddled behind stone pillars as they struggled to keep up against the spells still firing at them, Draco saw Hermione move; she pointed her wand at the thick cuffs chaining the dragon to the floor, and yelled, “Relashio!” The cuffs broke open with loud bangs. “This way!” she yelled, and still shooting Stunning Spells at the advancing goblins, she sprinted toward the blind dragon.

“Hermione _ —Hermione— _ what are you doing?” Ron cried.

“Get up, climb up, come on—” The dragon had not realized that it was free: lunging after Hermione with no more hesitation, Draco’s foot found the crook of its hind leg and he pulled himself up onto its back. The scales were hard as steel; it did not even seem to feel the humans. He stretched out an arm; Ron hoisted himself up behind, and Hermione settled in place in front of him.

A second later the dragon finally became aware that it was untethered. With a roar it reared: Draco dug in his knees, clutching as tightly as he could to the jagged scales as the wings opened, knocking the shrieking goblins aside like skittles, and it soared into the air.

Draco, Ron, and Hermione, flat on its back, scraped against the ceiling as it dived toward the passage opening, while the pursuing goblins hurled daggers that glanced off its flanks. “We’ll never get out, it’s too big!” Hermione screamed, but the dragon opened its mouth and belched flame again, blasting the tunnel, whose floors and ceilings cracked and crumbled.

By sheer force the dragon clawed and fought its way through. Draco’s eyes were shut tight against the heat and dust: Deafened by the crashing of rock and the dragon’s continuing roars, he could only cling to its back, expecting to be shaken off at any moment; then he heard Hermione yelling, “Defodio!” She was helping the dragon enlarge the passageway, carving out the ceiling as it struggled upward toward the fresher air, away from the shrieking and clanking goblins.

Draco and Ron copied her, blasting the ceiling apart with more gouging spells. They passed the underground lake, and the great crawling, snarling beast seemed to sense freedom and space ahead of it; behind them the passage was full of the dragon’s thrashing, spiked tail, of great lumps of rock, gigantic fractured stalactites, and the clanking of the goblins seemed to be growing more muffled, while ahead, the dragon’s fire kept their progress clear—

And then at last, by the combined force of their spells and the dragon’s brute strength, they had blasted their way out of the passage into the main marble hallway of the bank. Goblins and wizards screamed and ran for cover, and finally the dragon had room to stretch its wings: Turning its horned head toward the cool outside air it could smell beyond the entrance, it took off properly at last.

With Draco, Ron, and Hermione still clinging to its back, it forced its way through the metal doors, leaving them buckled and hanging from their hinges; it staggered into Diagon Alley, and launched itself into the sky.

There was no means of steering; the dragon could not see where it was going, and Draco knew that if it turned sharply or rolled in midair they would find it impossible to cling onto its broad back. Nevertheless, as they climbed higher and higher, London unfurling below them like a gray-and-green map, his overwhelming feeling was one of gratitude; for an escape that had seemed impossible.

They had made it. And more than that, they had succeeded--they had gotten the Horcrux.

Crouching low over the beast’s neck, he clung tight to the metallic scales, and the cool breeze was soothing on his burned and blistered skin, the dragon’s wings beating the air like the sails of a windmill. Behind him, whether from delight or fear he could not tell, Ron kept swearing at the top of his voice, and Hermione seemed to be sobbing in front of him.

After five minutes or so, Draco lost some of his immediate dread that the dragon was going to hurl them off, for it seemed intent on nothing but getting as far away from its underground prison as possible. But the question of how and when they were to dismount remained rather frightening.

He had no idea how long dragons could fly without landing, nor how this particular dragon, which could barely see, would locate a good place to put down. He glanced around constantly, trying to determine the landscape below, and the probability of surviving when they did return to the ground.

How long would it be before Voldemort knew that they had broken into the Lestranges’ vault? How soon would the goblins of Gringotts notify Bellatrix? How quickly would they realize what had been taken? And then, when they discovered that the golden cup was missing?

Voldemort would know, at last, that they were hunting for his Horcruxes.

The dragon seemed to be craving cooler and fresher air. It climbed steadily until they were flying through wisps of chilly clouds, and Draco could no longer make out the little colored dots which were cars pouring in and out of London. On and on they flew, over countryside parceled out in patches of green and brown, over roads and rivers winding through the landscape like strips of matte and glossy ribbon.

“What do you reckon it’s looking for?” Ron eventually yelled, as they flew farther and farther north.

“No idea,” Draco shouted back. His hands were numb with cold, but he did not dare attempt to shift his grip. He had been wondering for some time what they would do if they saw the coast sail beneath them, if the dragon headed for open sea. When, he wondered, had the beast itself last eaten? Surely it would need sustenance before long? And what if, at that point, it realized it had three highly edible humans sitting on its back?

The sun slipped lower in the sky, which was slowly turning indigo. And still the dragon flew, cities and towns gliding out of sight beneath them, its enormous shadow sliding over the earth like a great dark cloud.

Every part of Draco ached with the effort of holding on to the dragon’s back by now. “Is it my imagination,” Ron shouted after a considerable stretch of silence, “Or are we losing height?”

Draco looked down and saw deep green mountains and lakes, coppery in the sunset. The landscape seemed to grow larger and more detailed as he squinted over the side of the dragon, and he wondered whether it had divined the presence of fresh water by the flashes of reflected sunlight. Lower and lower the dragon flew, in great spiraling circles, honing in, it seemed, upon one of the smaller lakes.

“I say we jump when it gets low enough!” Draco called out to the others. “Straight into the water before it realizes we’re here!” They agreed, Hermione a little faintly; now Draco could see the dragon’s wide yellow underbelly reflected in the surface of the water.  _ “Now!” _

He slithered over the side of the dragon and plummeted feet-first toward the surface of the lake; the drop was greater than he had estimated and he hit the water hard, plunging like a stone into a freezing, green, reed-filled world.

Draco kicked back toward the surface and emerged, panting, to see enormous ripples emanating in circles from the places where Ron and Hermione had fallen. The dragon did not seem to have noticed anything: it was already fifty feet away, swooping low over the lake to scoop up water in its scarred snout. As Ron and Hermione emerged, spluttering and gasping, from the depths of the lake, the dragon flew on, its wings beating hard; eventually it landed on a distant bank. Draco, Ron, and Hermione struck out for the opposite shore.

The lake did not seem to be terribly deep, and soon it was more a question of fighting their way through reeds and mud than swimming, and at last they flopped, sodden, panting, and exhausted onto slippery grass.

Although Draco could have happily stayed down and gone right to sleep at that point, he staggered to his feet, drew out his wand, and started casting the usual protective spells around them. Once he had finished with that, he rejoined the other two.

It was the first time that he had seen them properly since escaping from the vault; both had angry red burns all over their faces and arms, and their clothing was singed and even burned completely away in places. They were wincing as they dabbed essence of dittany onto their many injuries. Hermione handed Draco the bottle, and then pulled out three bottles of pumpkin juice brought from Shell Cottage, as well as clean, dry robes for all of them.

They changed and then gulped down the juice, the rise in blood sugar boosting their spirits immensely. “Well, on the upside,” Ron said finally, sitting down to watch the skin on his hands slowly regrow. “We got the Horcrux. On the downside—”

“—no sword,” Draco affirmed through gritted teeth, as he dripped dittany through the singed hole in his jeans onto the angry burn beneath.

“No sword,” Ron agreed. “That double-crossing little scab...”

Draco blinked, glancing up; Ron looked annoyed, but Hermione’s face was tight. She met his gaze, and Draco knew at once that she had seen what happened to Griphook when he had tried to escape from the vault--and their arrangement--with the sword. Draco raised one eyebrow, silently asking if she was going to comment; Hermione looked conflicted for a moment, then sagged a little, shaking her head wordlessly.

He had a feeling that that was going to have to be discussed later on.

Pulling the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet jacket that he had just taken off, Draco set it down on the grass in front of them to examine. Glinting in the sun, it drew all of their eyes as they swigged their bottles of juice, and they pondered it quietly for a bit before Ron snorted. “At least we can’t wear it this time, that’d look a bit weird hanging round our necks,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Hermione looked across the lake to the far bank, where the dragon was still drinking. “What’ll happen to it, do you think?” she asked. “Will it be all right?”

“You sound like Hagrid,” Ron teased her gently. “It’s a dragon, Hermione, it can look after itself. It’s us we need to worry about.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking back at him in surprise.

“Well, I don’t know how to break this to you,” Ron replied, deadpan, “But I think they might have noticed we broke into Gringotts.”

All three of them started to laugh, and once started, it was difficult to stop. Draco ribs ached, and he felt almost lightheaded with hunger--but he lay back on the grass beneath the reddening sky, and laughed with Ron and Hermione until his throat was raw.

“Really though...what  _ are _ we going to do?” Hermione asked finally, hiccuping herself back to seriousness. “He’ll know, won’t he? Riddle will know that we know about his Horcruxes, now.”

“Maybe they’ll be too scared to tell him?” Ron suggested hopefully. “Maybe they’ll cover up—”

The rustle of the breeze, the smell of lake water, and the sound of Ron’s voice were extinguished: Pain lanced through Draco’s arm like a sword stroke slicing up the central artery. The Dark Mark suddenly burned so viciously that, when Draco looked down, he saw that it had turned the skin around the tattoo red and ugly. Draco dropped to his knees, and he heard himself crying out; it felt as if his arm was on fire.

“He knows.” His own voice sounded strange in his ears, gasping and low and broken as he tried to bite back his sounds of agony in order to speak. Ron and Hermione were on their knees on either side of him, faces bloodless. “He knows--he knows that we’re taking out the Horcruxes.” 

Draco staggered to his feet, trying to ground himself in the warmth of Hermione’s hand bracing his shoulder. “He’s never--never been this angry in his life, I’ve never felt this level of--” He gripped his forearm, stumbling as the pain pulsed fire-hot through his entire body. “We--we have to go.” Draco choked in air, looking up at the other two. “We have to get to Hogwarts. We need backup, we need to warn people.” Hermione grabbed the beaded bag, and Ron stuffed Hufflepuff’s cup into it for safe-keeping as Draco pulled his jacket back on.

“Riddle is coming.”


	42. Collect Your Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you? I said he’d come back, said they all three would!’ And as Draco emerged into the room beyond the passage, Ron and Hermione on his heels, there were several screams and yells of joy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We return to Hogwarts at last!

“Draco--wait, but....” Hermione gasped, as Ron pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and handed it over to Draco. “We can’t just  _ go,  _ we haven’t got a plan, we need to—”

“We need to get going,” Draco told her firmly. He had been hoping to sleep, looking forward to getting into the new tent and resting after another overly-intensive mission, but that was impossible now. “Can you imagine what he’s going to do if he realizes the ring and the locket are gone? What if he decides that his other Horcruxes aren’t safe enough, and moves them--or worse, starts keeping them on his person? It’d be impossible to destroy them.”

“But how are we going to get in?” Her voice went small; she understood and knew that he was right, but that did not lessen her terror at this sudden acceleration in pace. Draco did not blame her.

“We’ll go to Hogsmeade,” he said. “And then try to work something out once we see what the protection around the school’s like. Get under the Cloak, Hermione, I want to stick together this time.”

“But we don’t really fit—”

“It’s already getting dark, no one’s going to notice our feet.”

The flapping of enormous wings echoed across the black water; the dragon had drunk its fill, and risen back into the air. They paused in their preparations to watch it climb higher and higher, now black against the rapidly darkening sky, until it vanished over a nearby mountain.

Hermione walked forward and took her place between the two boys. Draco pulled the Cloak down as far as it would go over all three of them, and together they turned on the spot into the crushing darkness.

Draco’s feet touched down on hard road. He saw the achingly familiar Hogsmeade High Street: dark shop fronts, and the outline of black mountains beyond the village, and the curve in the road ahead that led off toward Hogwarts, and light spilling from the windows of the Three Broomsticks. With a lurch of the heart he remembered, with piercing accuracy, how he had landed here nearly a year before, supporting a desperately weak Dumbledore.

And then, even as he relaxed his grip on Ron’s and Hermione’s arms, everything went to hell.

The air was shattered by a scream that sounded like Voldemort’s when he was in the truest of rages, worse than any sound that Draco had ever heard in his life. It tore at every nerve in his body, and he knew immediately that their arrival had caused it.

Even as he looked in alarm at the other two beneath the Cloak, the door of the Three Broomsticks burst open and a dozen cloaked and hooded Death Eaters dashed into the street, their wands aloft. Draco seized Ron’s wrist as he raised his wand; there were too many of them to Stun. Even attempting it would give away their position.

One of the Death Eaters waved his wand and the scream stopped, still echoing around the distant mountains. “Accio Cloak!” roared another of them. Draco seized its folds, but it made no attempt to escape: the Summoning Charm had not worked on it. “Not hiding under a wrapper, then, Dragon?” yelled the one who had tried the charm, and then to his fellows, “Spread out. He’s here. They all are, I know it.”

Six Death Eaters ran toward them: Draco, Ron, and Hermione backed as quickly as possible down the nearest side street, and the Death Eaters missed them by inches. They waited in the darkness, listening to the footsteps running up and down, beams of light flying along the street from the Death Eaters’ searching wands.

“Let’s just leave!” Hermione whispered. “Disapparate now!”

“Great idea,” Ron agreed, but before Draco could argue, a Death Eater shouted, “We know you’re here, _ Dragon-- _ and there’s no getting away! We’ll find you!”

“They were ready for us,” Draco whispered. “They set up that spell to tell them we’d come. I reckon they’ve done something to keep us here, stop us from Disapparating—”

“What about dementors?” asked another Death Eater. “Let ’em have free rein, they’d find him quick enough!”

“The Dark Lord wants the Dragon alive, wants him dead by no hand but his—”

“—an’ dementors won’t kill him! The Dark Lord wants ‘is life, not his soul. He’ll be easier to kill if he’s been Kissed first!”

There were noises of mounting agreement. Dread filled Draco: To repel dementors they would have to produce Patronuses, which would give them away immediately. The bastards wouldn’t recognize his, but there was almost no way to be shielded by Patronuses without it being clear where they had been conjured from.

“We’re going to have to try to Disapparate, Draco!” Hermione whispered. “We can’t face dementors--” Even as she said it, he felt the unnatural cold begin to steal over the street. Light was sucked from the environment right up to the stars, which vanished from view. In the pitch-blackness, he felt Hermione take hold of his arm and together, they turned on the spot. The air through which they needed to move seemed to have become solid: they could not Disapparate. The Death Eaters had cast their charms well.

The cold was biting deeper and deeper into Draco’s flesh. He, Ron, and Hermione retreated down the side street, groping their way along the wall, trying not to make a sound.

Then, around the corner, gliding noiselessly, came dementors, ten or more of them, visible because they were of a denser darkness than their surroundings, with their black cloaks and their scabbed and rotting hands. Could they sense fear in the vicinity? Draco was sure of it: They seemed to be coming more quickly now, taking those dragging, rattling breaths he detested, tasting despair on the air, closing in—

He raised his wand: He could not, would not, suffer the Dementor’s Kiss, whatever happened afterward. It was of Ron and Hermione that he thought as he whispered, “Expecto Patronum!”

The silver phoenix burst from his wand and charged: The dementors scattered, and there was a triumphant yell from somewhere out of sight. “It’s him, down there, down there, he conjured a Patronus--find ‘im! Into the alley!”

The dementors had retreated, the stars were popping out again, and the footsteps of the Death Eaters were becoming louder; but before Draco could decide what to do, there was a grinding of bolts nearby, a door opened on the left-hand side of the narrow street, and a rough voice said, “Dragon--in here, quick!”

He obeyed without hesitation: The three of them hurtled through the open doorway. “Upstairs, keep the Cloak on, keep quiet!” muttered a tall figure, passing them on his way into the street and slamming the door closed again behind him.

For a moment, Draco had had no idea where they were; but then he saw, by the stuttering light of a single candle, the grubby, sawdust-strewn bar of the Hog’s Head Inn. The trio ran behind the counter and through a second doorway, which led to a rickety wooden staircase that they climbed as fast as they could. The stairs opened onto a sitting room with a threadbare carpet and a small fireplace, above which hung a single large oil painting of a blonde girl who gazed out at the room with a kind of vacant sweetness.

Shouts reached them from the street below. Still wearing the Invisibility Cloak, they crept toward the grimy window and looked down. Their savior, whom Draco now recognized as the Hog’s Head’s barman, was the only person not wearing a hood.

“So what?” he was bellowing into one of the hooded faces. “So what? You send dementors down my street, I’ll send a Patronus back at ’em! I’m not having ’em near me, I’ve told you that, I’m not having it!"

“That wasn’t your Patronus!” one of the Death Eaters squawked. “That was a bird, it was a soddin’ phoenix! I saw it clear as day!”

The barman scoffed. “You lot really are as dumb as yeh look. Only wizard in this lifetime to have had a phoenix Patronus was Albus bloody Dumbledore--not even your mythical Dragon’s likely to have one, too. That was  _ my _ bloody Patronus, and I’ve warned yeh all that I’d not have those cloaked bastards floatin’ around my pub!”

“Curfew’s been broken, you heard the noise,” one of of the others growled at the barman. “Someone was out in the street against the new regulations—”

“If I want to put my cat out, I will, and be damned to your curfew!”

“You set off the Caterwauling Charm?”

“What if I did? Going to cart me off to Azkaban? Kill me for sticking my nose out my own front door? Do it, then, if you want to! But I hope for your sakes you haven’t pressed your little Dark Marks and summoned him. He’s not going to like being called here for me and my old cat, is he, now?”

“Don’t you worry about us,” one of them snarled, “Worry about yourself, breaking curfew!”

“And where will you lot traffick potions and poisons when my pub’s closed down? What’ll happen to your little sidelines then?”

“Are you threatening—?”

“I keep my mouth shut, it’s why you come here, isn’t it?”

“Alright, fine, we made a mistake,” snapped the second Death Eater. “Break curfew again and we won’t be so lenient!” The Death Eaters strode back toward the High Street. Hermione moaned with relief, wove out from under the Cloak, and all but collapsed down into a wobble-legged chair.

Draco drew the curtains tightly shut, then pulled the Cloak off of himself and Ron. They could hear the barman down below, rebolting the door of the bar, then climbing the stairs. When he entered the room they were in, the barman first looked at the portrait of the girl, who smiled serenely back at him before he turned his attention to the three teenagers.

“You bloody fools,” he said gruffly, looking from one to the other of them. “What were you thinking, coming here?”

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly. “We can’t thank you enough. You saved our lives.”

The barman merely grunted. Draco approached him, looking up into the face, trying to see past the long, stringy, wire-gray hair and beard. He wore spectacles; but behind the dirty lenses, the eyes were a piercing, achingly familiar, brilliant blue. “You’re Aberforth,” Draco said, unsure of how he had this utter certainty. The barman huffed, then turned away, lighting lamps with prods of his wand, not looking at any of them. He neither confirmed nor denied it, but bent to focus on lighting the fire.

“Aberforth--Aberforth Dumbledore?” Hermione asked, soft and shocked. “You’re Professor Dumbledore’s brother?”

“Was.” The barman finished stoking the flames, then looked them all over as if--against his will--he wanted to check that they were physically alright. “I’d heard that those Death Eater morons had captured you three. That you’d been taken to Malfoy Manor--figured you wouldn’t come back out of there.”

“Dobby the house elf saved us,” Draco replied, and the older wizard nodded slowly, though he was still frowning.

“Would’ve thought that there’d be some more dramatic fallout from You-Know-Who findin’ out that this  _ Dragon _ enemy of his was the son of one of his own Death Eaters all this time.”

“They didn’t know. I was disguised. But the glamour charm broke.” Draco shrugged. “No more hiding anymore, though. He knows that I’m coming to face him. This fight is going to end tonight.”

Ron’s stomach abruptly gave an enormous rumble, and he flushed at once with embarrassment as Draco and Hermione glanced at him, bemused. “I’ll get food,” Aberforth muttered, and he sloped out of the room, reappearing moments later with a large loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which he set upon a small table in front of the fire.

Ravenous, they ate and drank, and for a while there was silence but for the crackle of the fire, the clink of goblets, and the sound of chewing.

“Right then,” said Aberforth when they had eaten their fill, and Draco and Ron sat slumped dozily in their chairs. The constant rise and crash of adrenaline had Draco half-ready to actually pass out then and there--but there was no time for rest. “We need to think of the best way to get you out of here. Can’t be done by night, you heard what happens if anyone moves outdoors during darkness: Caterwauling Charm’s set off, they’ll be onto you like bowtruckles on doxy eggs. I don’t reckon I’ll be able to convince ‘em a phoenix is a goat a second time. Wait for daybreak when curfew lifts, then you can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get right out of Hogsmeade, up into the mountains, and you’ll be able to Disapparate there. Might find Hagrid. He’s been hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever since they tried to arrest him.”

“We’re not leaving,” Draco replied quietly. “We need to get into Hogwarts.”

“Don’t be stupid, boy,” Aberforth snorted. “That’s suicide, and make no mistake.”

“We’ve got to,” Draco said firmly. “This isn’t a debate.”

“What you’ve got to do,” Aberforth shot back, leaning forward, “Is to get as far from here as you can.”

“You don’t understand. There isn’t much time, we can’t waste any explaining. We’ve got to get into the castle. Dumbledore—I mean, your brother—wanted us to—”

“My brother Albus wanted a lot of things,” Aberforth cut him off, “And people had a habit of getting hurt while he was carrying out his grand plans.” The firelight made the grimy lenses of his glasses momentarily opaque, a bright flat white, and Draco was reminded bizarrely of the dead, blind eyes of the giant spider, Aragog. “You get away from this school, Dragon, and out of the country if you can. Forget my brother and his clever schemes. He’s gone where none of this can hurt him, and you don’t owe him anything."

“You don’t understand,” Draco repeated stoically.

“Oh, don’t I?” Aberforth asked quietly. “You don’t think I understood my own brother? Think you knew Albus better than I did?”

“I didn’t mean that,” Draco said, whose brain felt sluggish with exhaustion and from the surfeit of food; he was becoming more and more frustrated just sitting here. “It’s...he left me a job. I  _ have _ to finish it.”

“Did he now?” Aberforth quipped. “Nice job, I hope? Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing you’d expect an unqualified wizard kid to be able to do without overstretching themselves?”

Ron gave a rather grim laugh, and Hermione was looking strained now, as well. “It’s not easy, no,” Draco replied quietly. “But I’ve got to—”

“‘Got to’? Why ‘got to’? He’s dead, isn’t he?” Aberforth asked, more roughly. “Let it go, boy, before you follow him! Save yourself!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I—” Draco felt momentarily overwhelmed; he could not explain, so he switched to going on the offensive, instead. “But you’re part of the fight, too, you’re in the Order of the Phoenix—”

“I was,” Aberforth scoffed. “The Order of the Phoenix is finished. You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone who’s pretending different’s kidding themselves. It’ll never be safe for you here, boy, he wants you dead too badly. So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself. Best take these two with you.” He jerked a thumb at Ron and Hermione. “They’ll be in danger as long as they live now everyone knows they’ve been working with you.”

“I am not leaving,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “I’m finishing this—”

“Give it to someone else!”

“I can’t. It has to be me, Dumbledore helped me see that—”

“Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was he completely honest with you?”

Draco sighed; unconsciously he rubbed his left arm. He knew that he did not have the decades of life experience that so many of his friends and loved ones did, and he did not know...well, anything, about the relationship between the Dumbledore brothers. He wasn’t sure he had ever actually known that Abertforth existed, before Skeeter wrote her stupid book, and it came up as a posthumous scandal attempt against Albus.

But none that mattered, at least not at the moment. He could sort through his emotions regarding everything that Aberforth was saying--and his cynicism towards his brother--another time.

“Dumbledore trusted me to see this through,” he told the barman quietly, his voice hard as steel.

“And what makes you think you can trust  _ him?”  _ Aberforth asked, pouring himself more of the mead as he stared back at Draco. “What makes you think you could believe anything my brother told you? In all the time you knew him, did he ever mention my name?” He lifted the goblet, extending his index finger to point it towards the portrait of the girl; it was, now that Draco looked around properly, the only picture in the room. There were no photographs of Albus, nor of anyone else. “Did he ever mention _ hers?” _

“Mr. Dumbledore?” Hermione asked softly, also glancing at the portrait. “Is that your sister? Ariana?” Aberforth did not look at her, but merely nodded.

Draco shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you that,” he said shortly. He had made his choice while he dug Dobby’s grave, he had decided to continue along the winding, dangerous path indicated for him by Albus Dumbledore--to accept that he had not been told everything that he wanted to know, but simply to trust. He had no desire to be plagued by doubts again; he did not want to hear anything that would deflect him from his purpose. He met Aberforth’s gaze, which was so strikingly like his brother’s.

“Professor Dumbledore cared about Draco, very much,” Hermione interjected in a low voice. “He cared about all of us. He was a very good mentor.”

“Did he now?” Aberforth asked, scathingly. “Funny thing, how many of the people my brother cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ’em well alone.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, startled. When Aberforth merely shook his head, turning away, she stepped closer to him, her voice heating. “That’s a really serious thing to say,” she said hotly. “Are you—are you talking about what happened to Ariana?”

Aberforth turned back sharply, and glared at her. Then he seemed to let his anger burst into words. “When my sister was six years old, she was attacked by three Muggle boys. They’d seen her doing magic, spying through the back garden hedge: She was a kid, she couldn’t control it, no witch or wizard can at that age. What they saw scared them, I expect. They forced their way through the hedge, and when she couldn’t show them the trick, they got a bit carried away trying to stop the little freak doing it.”

Hermione’s eyes went huge in the firelight; Ron looked slightly sick at hearing this. Aberforth stood straight, as tall as his brother had been, and he seemed suddenly terrible in his anger and the intensity of his pain.

“It destroyed her, what they did: She was never right again. She wouldn’t use magic, but she couldn’t get rid of it; it turned inward and drove her mad, it exploded out of her when she couldn’t control it, and at times she was strange and dangerous. But mostly she was sweet and scared and harmless. And my father went after the bastards that did it,” Aberforth added, “And attacked them back. And they locked him up in Azkaban for it. He never said why he’d done it, because if the Ministry had known what Ariana had become, she’d have been locked up in St. Mungo’s for good. They’d have seen her as a serious threat to the International Statute of Secrecy, unbalanced like she was, with magic exploding out of her at moments when she couldn’t keep it in any longer. We had to keep her safe and quiet. We moved house, put it about  she was ill, and my mother looked after her, and tried to keep her calm and happy.”

He paused, then sighed. “I was her favorite,” he said, and as he said it, a grubby schoolboy seemed to look out through Aberforth’s wrinkles and tangled beard. “Not Albus, he was always up in his bedroom when he was home, reading his books and counting his prizes, keeping up with his correspondence with ‘the most notable magical names of the day,’” Aberforth sneered. “He didn’t want to be bothered with her. She liked me best. I could get her to eat when she wouldn’t do it for my mother, I could get her to calm down when she was in one of her rages, and when she was quiet, she used to help me feed the goats.”

Draco had the feeling that Aberforth had been holding this story in for too many years with no one to tell, no one who asked because they truly cared. It was clear that he had needed to say all of this, for quite some time.

“Then, when she was fourteen...you see, I wasn’t there,” Aberforth went on. “If I’d been there, I could have calmed her down. She had one of her rages, and my mother wasn’t as young as she was, and...it was an accident. Ariana couldn’t control it. But our mother was killed.”

Hermione made a wounded sound, but he didn’t seem to hear her. “So that ended Albus’s trip ‘round the world with little Doge. The pair of ’em came home for my mother’s funeral and then Doge went off on his own, and Albus settled down as head of the family. Ha!”

Aberforth spat into the fire. “I’d have looked after her, I told him so, I didn’t care about school, I’d have stayed home and done it. He told me I had to finish my education and that he’d take over from my mother. Bit of a comedown for Mr. Brilliant, there’s no prizes for looking after your half-mad sister, stopping her blowing up the house every other day. But he did all right for a few weeks...till  _ he _ came.”

Now a positively dangerous look crept over Aberforth’s face. “Grindelwald. And at last, my brother had an equal to talk to, someone just as bright and talented as he was. And looking after Ariana took a backseat then, while they were hatching all their plans for a new Wizarding order, and looking for Hallows, and whatever else it was they were so interested in. Grand plans for the benefit of all Wizardkind, and if one young girl got neglected, what did that matter, when Albus was working for the greater good? But after a few weeks of it, I’d had enough, I had. It was nearly time for me to go back to Hogwarts, so I told ’em, both of ’em, face-to-face, like I am to you, now.”

Aberforth looked down at Draco, and it took little imagination to see him as a teenager, wiry and angry, confronting his elder brother. “I told him, you’d better give it up now. You can’t move her, she’s in no fit state, you can’t take her with you, wherever it is you’re planning to go, when you’re making your clever speeches, trying to whip yourselves up a following.  _ He _ didn’t like that,” Aberforth said, and his tone became much heavier.

“Grindelwald didn’t like that at all. He got angry. He told me what a stupid little boy I was, trying to stand in the way of him and my brilliant brother....didn’t I understand, my poor sister wouldn’t have to be hidden once they’d changed the world, and led the wizards out of hiding, and taught the Muggles their place? And there was a terrible argument...and I pulled out my wand, and he pulled out his, and I had the Cruciatus Curse used on me by my brother’s lover—and Albus was trying to stop him, and then all three of us were dueling, and the flashing lights and the bangs set her off, she couldn’t stand it—”

The color was draining from Aberforth’s face as though he had suffered a mortal wound. “—and I think she wanted to help, but she didn’t really know what she was doing, and I don’t know which of us did it, it could have been any of us—and then she was dead.”

His voice broke on the last word and he dropped down into the nearest chair. Hermione’s face was wet with tears, and Ron was almost as pale as Aberforth. “I’m so...I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered.

“Gone,” Aberforth croaked. “Gone forever.” He wiped his nose on his cuff and cleared his throat. “’Course, Grindelwald scarpered. He had a bit of a track record already, back in his own country, and he didn’t want Ariana set to his account too. And Albus was free, wasn’t he? Free of the burden of his sister, free to become the greatest wizard of the—”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Draco snapped.

Aberforth stopped speaking, and Hermione and Ron both gaped at Draco for the sudden outburst. “Excuse me?” the older man demanded, his crying subsiding.

“He was just as haunted by what happened as you were,” Draco said, his voice steely. “He was never free.  _ Never.  _ The night that he died, I was with him. He drank a potion that drove him out of his mind, screaming and pleading with Grindelwald, begging him to not hurt you or Ariana.  _ ‘Don’t hurt them, please, hurt me instead.’  _ He never forgave himself for what happened. And if anyone can understand the guilt he felt for his past, it’s me. I was even worse than he was as a kid. I’ll never forgive myself for it. This is me making amends, just like he did.”

Aberforth seemed lost in contemplation of his own knotted and veined hands. After a long pause, he said gruffly, “All this time I’d been thinking that this Dragon must be the world’s greatest fool. Taking on a suicide mission on the command of a man who wouldn’t even tell him how to start.” He looked up at Draco again, scowling. “Making amends is one thing, boy, but you’re lining yourself up to just be another martyr to my brother’s cause.”

Draco stared back at him for a long moment, but the resolve that was keeping him going, enabling him to put one foot in front of the other, did not crumble.

“I’m not interested in what happened between you and your brother,” he told Aberforth quietly. The words were direct, and he was too tired to work at making them sound kind. “I don’t care that you’ve given up. I trusted the man I knew. And we need to get into the castle. Tonight.”

Aberforth remained fixed in his chair, gazing at Draco as if attempting to understand something about him. At long last, however, he cleared his throat, got to his feet, walked around the little table, and approached the portrait of Ariana. “You know what to do,” he said softly.

She smiled, turned, and walked away--not as people in portraits usually did, out of the sides of their frames, but along what seemed to be a long tunnel painted behind her. They watched her slight figure retreating until finally she was swallowed by the darkness.

“There’s only one way in now,” Aberforth told Draco. “You must know they’ve got all the old secret passageways covered at both ends, dementors all around the boundary walls, regular patrols inside the school from what my sources tell me. The place has never been so heavily guarded. How you expect to do anything once you get inside it, with Snape in charge and the Carrows as his deputies...well, that’s your lookout, isn’t it? You say you’re prepared to die.”

Draco did not reply; while some of that was accurate and intimidating, one statement was quite the opposite. He had to admit, he was desperately eager to see Severus again. As they stared at the now-empty portrait, a tiny white dot had reappeared at the end of the painted tunnel; and now Ariana was walking back toward them, growing bigger and bigger as she came.

But there was somebody else with her now, someone taller than she was, who was limping along, looking excited. His hair was longer than Draco had ever seen it; he had several gashes to his face; and his clothes were ripped and torn. Larger and larger the two figures grew, until only their heads and shoulders filled the portrait.

Then the whole thing swung forward on the wall like a little door, and the entrance to a real tunnel was revealed. And out of it, his hair overgrown, his face cut up, his robes ripped, clambered the real Neville Longbottom in the flesh. He gave a roar of delight, leapt down from the mantelpiece, and yelled, “I knew you’d come back, Draco! I knew it!”

“Neville—what the _ —how—?” _

But Neville had spotted Ron and Hermione, and with more yells of delight was hugging them next. The longer Draco stared at Neville, the worse he appeared: One of his eyes was swollen yellow and purple, there were gouge marks on his face, and his general air of unkemptness suggested that he had been living rough.

Nevertheless, his battered visage shone with happiness as he let go of Hermione and said again, “I knew you’d come! Kept telling Seamus it was a matter of time!”

“Neville, what’s happened to you?”

“What? Oh, his?” Neville dismissed his injuries with a shake of the head. “This is nothing. Seamus is worse. You’ll see. Shall we get going then? Oh,” he turned back to Aberforth, “Abe, there might be a couple more people on the way.”

“Couple more?” Aberforth repeated irritably. “What d’you mean, a couple more, Longbottom? There’s a curfew and a Caterwauling Charm on the whole village!”

“I know, that’s why they’ll be Apparating directly into the bar,” Neville replied, grinning. “Just send them down the passage when they get here, will you? Thanks a lot.”

Neville held out his hand to Hermione and helped her to climb up onto the mantelpiece and into the tunnel; Ron followed, with Neville behind him. Draco paused, then turned to address Aberforth one more time. “Thank you, again,” he said quietly “You saved our lives. Regardless of...everything else, we owe you for that.”

“Bloody try and  _ stay _ alive, then,” Aberforth answered gruffly. “I might not be able to save your hides a second time.”

Draco clambered up onto the mantelpiece and through the hole behind Ariana’s portrait. There were smooth stone steps on the other side; it looked as though the passageway had been there for years. Brass lamps hung from the walls and the earthy floor was worn and smooth, and as they walked, their shadows rippled, fanlike, across the wall.

“How long has this been here?” Ron asked as they set off. “It isn’t on the Marauder’s Map, is it? I thought there were only seven passages in and out of school?”

“They sealed off all of those before the start of the year,” Neville explained. “There’s no chance of getting through any of them now, not with curses over the entrances and Death Eaters and dementors waiting at the exits.” He started walking backwards in order to keep his eyes on them, beaming, drinking them in. “Never mind that stuff...is it all true? Did you break into Gringotts? Did you escape on a dragon? It’s everywhere, everyone’s talking about it, Terry Boot got beaten up by Carrow for yelling about it in the Great Hall at dinner!”

“Yeah, it’s true,” Ron said, smirking. “Even the dragon.”

Neville laughed gleefully. “What did you do with the poor thing?”

“Released it into the wild,” Ron replied. “Hermione was all for keeping it as a pet—”

“Don’t  _ exaggerate, _ Ron—”

“But what have you been doing? People have been saying you’ve just been on the run, Draco, but I knew you weren’t. I think you’ve been up to something. Had to be, with how the whole Dragon thing’s taken off--judgin’ by how the Carrows and the rest of them act. You’ve got the whole lot of them on edge. Can’t say for certain, but I’d wager You-Know-Who himself is properly afraid of you!”

“You’re right--that we were up to something,” Draco confirmed slowly; he honestly doubted that Riddle was  _ afraid _ of him. It was far more likely that he just wanted Draco dead, preferably immediately and desirably by his own hand. “But tell us about Hogwarts, Neville, we haven’t heard anything.”

“It’s been...well, it’s not really like Hogwarts anymore,” Neville replied, the smile fading from his face as he spoke. “Do you know about the Carrows?”

“They’re Death Eaters who teach now, aren’t they?”

“They do more than teach,” Neville said sadly. “They’re in charge of all discipline. They like punishment, the Carrows.”

“Like Umbridge did?”

“Nah, they make her look tame. The other teachers are all supposed to refer us to the Carrows if we do anything wrong. They don’t, though, if they can avoid it. You can tell they all hate them as much as we do. Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be Defense Against the Dark Arts, except now it’s just the Dark Arts. We’re supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who’ve earned detentions—

_ “What?” _ Draco, Ron, and Hermione’s united voices echoed up and down the passage as they gasped.

“Yeah,” Neville said, shaking his head. “That’s how I got this one,” he pointed at a particularly deep gash in his cheek, “I refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; Crabbe loves it. First time he’s ever been top in anything, I expect. Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drove wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,” he indicated another slash to his face, “...for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.”

“Blimey, Neville,” Ron snorted, “There’s a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.”

“You didn’t hear her,” Neville said firmly. “You wouldn’t have stood it either. The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Hermione.”

“But they’ve used you as a knife sharpener,” Ron protested, wincing slightly as they passed a lamp and Neville’s injuries were thrown into even greater relief.

Neville just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to spill too much pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy but they won’t actually kill us.” Draco did not know what was worse--the things that Neville was saying, or the matter-of-fact tone in which he said them. “The only people in real danger are the ones whose friends and relatives on the outside are giving trouble. They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovegood was getting a bit too outspoken in The Quibbler, so they dragged Luna off the train on the way back for Christmas.”

“Oh--Neville, she’s all right, we’ve seen her—”

“Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to us.” From his pocket he pulled a golden coin, and Draco recognized it at once as one of the fake Galleons that Dumbledore’s Army had used to send one another messages. “These have been great,” Neville added, beaming at Hermione. “The Carrows never rumbled how we were communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak out at night and put graffiti on the walls:  _ Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting, _ stuff like that. They hated it.”

“You used to?” Draco asked, caught by the use of past tense.

“Well, it got more difficult as time went on,” Neville admitted. “We lost Luna at Christmas, and Ginny never came back after Easter, and the three of us were sort of the leaders. The Carrows seemed to know I was behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they’d chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.”

“No kidding,” Ron muttered darkly, as the passage began to slope upward.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t ask people to go through what Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. But we were still fighting, doing underground stuff, right up until a couple of weeks ago. That’s when they decided there was only one way to stop me, I suppose, and they went for Gran.”

“They what?” Ron, and Hermione said together.

“Yeah,” Neville confirmed, panting a little now, because the passage was climbing so steeply, “Well, you can see their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping kids to force their relatives to behave, I s’pose it was only a matter of time before they did it the other way around. Thing was,” he faced them, and Draco was astonished to see that he was grinning, “They bit off a bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old witch living alone, they probably thought they didn’t need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway,” Neville laughed, “Dawlish is still in St. Mungo’s and Gran’s on the run. She sent me a letter,” he clapped a hand to the breast pocket of his robes, “telling me she was proud of me, that I’m my parents’ son, and to keep it up."

“That’s brilliant,” Ron said. “Glad she’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Neville agreed happily. “Only thing was, once they realized they had no hold over me, they decided Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don’t know whether they were planning to kill me or send me to Azkaban; either way, I knew it was time to disappear.”

“But,” Hermione said, now looking thoroughly confused, “Aren’t—aren’t we heading straight back into Hogwarts?”

“’Course,” Neville chuckled. “You’ll see. We’re here.” They turned a corner, and there ahead of them was the end of the passage. Another short flight of steps led to a door just like the one hidden behind Ariana’s portrait. Neville pushed it open and climbed through.

As Draco followed him down, he heard Neville call out to unseen people: “Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you? I said he’d come back, said they all three would!” And as Draco emerged into the room beyond the passage, Ron and Hermione on his heels, there were several screams and yells of joy: “ _ Draco _ !” “It’s Malfoy, it’s  _ Malfoy!” _ “Ron!” “Hermione!”

He had a fleeting impression of colored hangings, of lamps and many faces; and then the next moment, Draco, Ron, and Hermione were engulfed, hugged, pounded on the back, their hair ruffled, their hands shaken, by what seemed to be more than twenty people. “Okay, okay, calm down!” Neville called out, and as the crowd backed away, Draco was able to properly take in their surroundings.

He did not recognize the room at all. It was enormous, and looked rather like the interior of a particularly sumptuous tree house, or perhaps a gigantic ship’s cabin. Multicolored hammocks were strung from the ceiling and from a balcony that ran around the dark wood-paneled and windowless walls, which were covered in bright tapestry hangings.

On each of the four walls the different Houses were represented: Draco could see the gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue; and the silver serpent Slytherin against green. There were bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped against the walls, and in the corner, a large wooden-cased wireless.

“Where are we?” he asked in bewilderment, taking in the almost campsite-like arrangement of bedding and other furnishings.

“Room of Requirement, of course!” Neville laughed. “Surpassed itself, hasn’t it? The Carrows were chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a hideout: I managed to get through the door and this is what I found! Well, it wasn’t exactly like this when I arrived, it was a load smaller, there was only one hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it’s expanded as more and more of the D.A. have arrived.”

“And the Carrows can’t get in?” Draco asked, looking around for the door.

“Nope,” Seamus replied, and Draco startled badly; he had not recognized the Gryffindor boy until he spoke, Seamus’s face was so badly bruised and puffy. “It’s a proper hideout, as long as one of us stays in here, they can’t get at us, the door won’t open. It’s all down to Neville. He really gets this room. You’ve got to ask it for exactly what you need—like, ‘I don’t want any Carrow supporters to be able to get in’—and it’ll do it for you! You’ve just gotta make sure you close the loopholes! Neville’s the man!”

“It’s quite straightforward, really,” Neville chuckled modestly. “I’d been in here about a day and a half, and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get something to eat, and that’s when the passage to the Hog’s Head opened up. I went through it and met Aberforth. He’s been providing us with food, because for some reason, that’s the one thing the room doesn’t really do.”

“Yeah, well, food’s one of the five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” Ron said sagely, to general astonishment. Hermione turned her face so that only Draco caught her smirk, and he grinned back at her in wordless amusement.

“So we’ve been hiding out here for nearly two weeks,” Seamus went on. “And it just makes more hammocks every time we need them, and it even sprouted a pretty good bathroom once girls started turning up—”

“—and thought they’d quite like to wash, yes,” Lavender Brown pitched in, whom Draco had not noticed until that point. Now that he looked around properly, he recognized many familiar faces. Both Patil twins were there, as were Terry Boot, Ernie Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner. And beneath the Slytherin banners on the far wall--

_ “Pansy!” _

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Pansy called out sardonically, a wide smile on her face. But it was covered in bruises, with a bandage on her neck, while her hair had grown longer and more tangled than she normally ever allowed it to be. With her was Theo, nursing what looked like a broken wrist, as well as--shockingly--both of the Greengrass sisters, Daphne and Astoria, and Blaise Zabini, all three of them looking baffled to see Draco alive.

Pansy rose to meet them, giving Draco a quick hug before throwing her arms tightly around a shocked and relieved Ron, while Hermione just smiled as Theo came after her to greet them. “What on earth happened to you two?” Draco asked worriedly.

“We got caught out as blood traitors, finally,” Theo replied, rolling his eyes. “And we recruited Daphne, Astoria and Blaise to Dumbledore’s Army while undercover. We all had to go into hiding though. Pansy’s parents aren’t happy, and the Greengrasses had to go into hiding too--you know they don’t fully support the idea of senseless violence. Blaise still hasn’t heard from his mother.”

“Probably for the best.” Blaise smiled a bit, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “These two told me you were alive, but I didn’t quite believe it. And you’re clearly not a ghost. So you’re really this Dragon fellow, huh? You’ve been a real pain in the arse to the Death Eaters, then.”

“A pain in the arse for everyone involved,” Ron said, causing the group to laugh. “We better be glad Draco’s on our side.”

“Tell us what you’ve been up to, though,” Ernie asked eagerly. “There’ve been so many rumors, we’ve been trying to keep up with you on Dragonwatch.” He pointed at the wireless. “You didn’t  _ really  _ break into Gringotts?”

“They did!” Neville confirmed. “And the dragon part’s true too!” There was a smattering of applause and a few whoops; Ron took a teasing bow.

“So the Dragon stole a dragon,” Astoria remarked, causing a few people to giggle. “Why does that not surprise me? Those Gryffindors are corrupting you Draco.”

“You have no idea,” he said dryly. He reached out, finding Hermione’s hand and taking it, and she moved closer to his side with twinkling eyes. “But I can assure you, I remain a cunning and creative serpent at heart.”

Pansy looked at their linked hands and gave a theatrical little groan of relief.  _ “Finally,”  _ she sighed jokingly. “Once this is all over, you owe me a detailed retelling of how you got your head on straight and finally went for it.” She glanced back Ron, her cheeks warming a little; he just smiled, reaching out to take her hand, and if Draco hadn’t been unwilling to interrupt the way that they were now looking at each other, he’d have tried to high-five the ginger for finally sealing the bloody deal.

“So what were you after?” Seamus asked eagerly; at Draco’s confused look, he gestured impatiently. “At Gringotts! That was bloody bold, you know? What could you possibly have been trying to get? Amazing you weren’t busted then and there!”

Before any of them could parry the question with one of their own, Draco stiffened; his left arm had abruptly begun to burn again, just as violently and painfully as it had by the lake after leaping from the dragon’s back. If Voldemort’s emotions were this tangible in every Dark Mark, he had no idea how any of them--even his damned aunt--had ever endured it. How did they survive when Riddle was truly angry, enough to  _ kill,  _ as he was right now?

Draco swallowed hard, swaying, and he blinked when he realized that sweat was suddenly pouring down his face; Ron had reached out to brace him, as well as Hermione and Pansy. “Are you all right, Draco?” Neville was saying worriedly. “Want to sit down? I expect you’re tired, aren’t— ?”

“No,” Draco said, though he very much desperately  _ did _ wish that he could just curl up in the nearest hammock, and let time get away from him. He looked at Ron and Hermione, trying to tell them without words that they were running shorter and shorter on time; Voldemort had just discovered the loss of one of the other Horcruxes.

If Voldemort chose to come to Hogwarts, whether in search of the Dragon or to confer with Severus, then they would miss their chance. “We need to get going,” he told him, and their expressions showed that they understood.

“What are we going to do, then, Draco?” Seamus asked, visibly gearing up; he was actually brimming with anticipation. “What’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Draco repeated. He was exercising all his willpower to prevent himself from focusing solely on Voldemort’s faraway rage; his arm felt as if it was going to fall off of his body from the pain. “Well, there’s something we—Ron, Hermione, and I—need to do, and then we’ll get out of here.”

Nobody was laughing or whooping anymore. Neville looked confused. “What d’you mean, ‘get out of here’?”

“We haven’t come back to stay,” Draco told them, forcing himself not to rub his arm in a pointless attempt to soothe the pain; it wouldn’t help, and he did not want to deal with anyone worrying about the pain it was causing him. “There’s something important we need to do—”

“What is it?” He was facing a large semi-circle of people who he knew, and trusted, and loved, and they were all gazing back at raptly, with the same zealous ferocity that they’d shown in every single D.A. meeting. They were so unceasingly loyal, and so ready to follow him.

Draco’s chest tightened with pain, and affection. “I—I can’t tell you.”

There was a ripple of disapproving muttering at this: Neville’s brows contracted. “Why can’t you tell us? It’s something to do with fighting You-Know-Who, right?”

“Well, yeah—”

“Then we’ll help you.” The other members of Dumbledore’s Army were nodding, some enthusiastically, others solemnly. A couple of them rose from their chairs to demonstrate their willingness to leap into immediate action.

“You don’t understand.” Draco seemed to have said that a lot in the last few hours. “We—we can’t tell you. We’ve got to do it—alone. Just us.”

“Why?” Neville asked. “Why on earth would you have to do it alone? It’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, why we did everything we did, learned all together? It’s what the D.A. was  _ for.” _

“Because...” In his desperation to start looking for the final missing Horcrux, or at least to have a private discussion with Ron and Hermione about where they might commence their search, Draco was finding it increasingly difficult to gather his thoughts. “Dumbledore left the three of us a job,” he said carefully, “And we weren’t supposed to tell—I mean, he wanted us to do it, just the three of us.”

“We’re his army,” Neville reiterated. “Dumbledore’s Army. We were all in it together, we’ve been keeping it going while you three have been off on your own—”

“It hasn’t exactly been a picnic, mate,” Ron said wryly.

“I never said it had been, but I don’t see why you can’t trust us. Everyone in this room’s been fighting and they’ve been driven in here because the Carrows were hunting them down. Everyone in here’s proven they’re loyal to Dumbledore—loyal to you.”

“Look,” Draco began, without knowing what he was going to say--but it did not matter: The tunnel door had just opened again behind him.

“We got your message, Neville! Hello you three, I thought you must be here!” It was Luna and Dean. Seamus gave a great roar of delight and ran to hug the other Gryffindor, who embraced him back just as desperately. “Hi, everyone!” Luna went on happily. “Oh, it’s great to be back!”

“Luna,” Draco said distractedly, “What are you doing here? How did you— ?”

“I sent for her,” Neville told him, holding up the fake Galleon. “I promised her and Ginny that if you turned up I’d let them know. We all thought that if you came back, it would mean revolution. That we were going to overthrow the Carrows, and the others.”

“Of course that’s what it means,” Luna said brightly. “Isn’t it, Draco? We’re going to fight, and drive them out of Hogwarts?”

“Listen,” Draco protested, with a rising sense of panic, “I’m sorry, but that’s not what we came back for. There’s something we’ve got to do, and then—”

“You’re going to leave us in this mess?” Michael Corner demanded, sounding as bloody snide as he always had.

“No!” Ron snapped at him. “What we’re doing will benefit everyone in the end, it’s all about trying to get rid of You-Know-Who for good—”

“Then let us help!” Neville cut him off angrily. Draco had never seen the Gryffindor look this defiantly at his friends. “We want to be a part of it!”

There was another noise behind them, and Draco turned again; Ginny was now climbing through the hole in the wall, closely followed by Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Ginny gave them all a radiant smile before she moved immediately to Luna’s side, and the girls held one another as if it had been years, rather than months, since they’d been together. Draco couldn’t deny that knowing they were both alive and well was wonderful--but he had never been less pleased to see them all in one place.

“Aberforth’s getting a bit annoyed,” Fred advised Neville, raising his hand in answer to several cries of greeting. “He wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway station.”

Behind Lee Jordan, Cho Chang was now also climbing down from the tunnel; she smiled at Draco as she dropped down to the floor. “I got the message!” she said, holding up her own fake Galleon, and then walked over to sit beside Michael Corner.

“So what’s the plan, Draco?” George asked, breaking his hug with Ron as they all turned back towards Draco.

“There isn’t one,” Draco managed, still disoriented by the sudden appearance of all these people, unable to take everything in while his mind was still spinning so wildly. There was simply too much going on.

“Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My favorite kind,” Fred beamed.

Draco opened his mouth, prepared to continue arguing--he wanted to demand why Neville was calling more people back, to tell him to  _ stop, _ they all needed to be far away and safe--when Hermione suddenly squeezed his hand. He looked at her, and then at Ron as he stepped in close as well, Pansy still at his side.

“Draco...maybe they  _ can _ help.” Ron dropped his voice and said, so that his voice wouldn’t carry, “We don’t know where it is. We’ve got to find it  _ fast.  _ We don’t have to tell them that it’s a Horcrux.”

Draco looked from Ron to Hermione, who nodded. “I think Ron’s right. We don’t even know what we’re looking for...we need all the help that we can get.”

And when Draco looked unconvinced, it was Pansy who added the final encouragement. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Draco,” she murmured tenderly, and there was a lifetime of inseparable best friendship and loyalty underlying her tone.

He stared around at the three of them, and then he realized that he was now the one pointlessly wasting time. And they were not wrong, which made his delaying even stupider. “You know what--fine, you’re right. Bloody hell. Okay,” he called to the room at large, and all noise ceased: Fred and George, who had been cracking jokes for the benefit of those nearest to them, fell silent, and all of them looked alert, excited. “That’s it, then--we’re going to make Hogwarts the final stand, it seems.”

There was a resounding cheer, and Draco sighed heavily, waving to quiet them all before pressing on. “There’s something we need to find,” he told them. “Something—something that’ll help us overthrow You-Know-Who. It’s here at Hogwarts, but we don’t know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw. Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone ever come across something with her eagle on it, for instance?”

He looked hopefully toward the little group of Ravenclaws--to Padma, Michael, Terry, and Cho; but it was Luna who answered, perched on the arm of Ginny’s chair. “Well, there’s her lost diadem. I told you about it, remember, Draco? The lost diadem of Ravenclaw? Daddy’s trying to duplicate it.”

“Yeah, but the  _ lost _ diadem,” Michael Corner said, rolling his eyes, “...is just that--lost, Luna. That’s sort of the point.”

“When was it lost?” Draco asked; if he’d ever read about this in any of their textbooks, the information was not coming back to mind now.

“Centuries ago, they say,” Cho said, and Draco’s heart sank. “Professor Flitwick says the diadem vanished with Ravenclaw herself. People have looked, but,” she appealed to her fellow Ravenclaws, “Nobody’s ever found a trace of it, have they?” They all shook their heads.

“Sorry, but what is a diadem?” Ron asked.

“It’s a kind of crown,” Terry Boot answered him . “Ravenclaw’s was supposed to have magical properties, enhancing the wisdom of the wearer.”

“Yes, Daddy’s Wrackspurt siphons—”

But Draco cut across Luna, not having time to dwell on the funny headdress that Xenophilius had been making. “And none of you have ever seen anything that looks like it?” They all shook their heads again. Draco looked at Ron and Hermione, and his own disappointment was mirrored back at him.

An object that had been lost this long, and apparently without trace, did not seem like a good candidate for the Horcrux hidden in the castle....but before he could formulate a new question, Luna spoke up again. “If you’d like to at least see what the diadem’s supposed to look like, I could take you up to our common room and show you, Draco? Ravenclaw’s wearing it in her statue.”

Draco’s arm scorched again; for a moment the Room of Requirement swam before his eyes, the pain was so overwhelming that Draco almost thought that he might have actually fainted for less than a heartbeat. There was hardly any time left.

“He’s on the move,” he said quietly to Ron and Hermione. He glanced at Luna, weighing their options, and then back at them. “Listen, I know it’s not much of a lead, but I’m going to go and look at this statue, at least find out what the diadem looks like. Wait for me here and keep, you know—the other one—safe.” Luna got to her feet, nodding happily.

“How do we get out?” Draco asked Neville next.

“Over here.” He led Draco and Luna to a corner, where a small cupboard opened onto a steep staircase. “It comes out somewhere different every day, so they’ve never been able to find it,” he explained. “Only trouble is, we never know exactly where we’re going to end up when we go out. Be careful, Draco, they’re always patrolling the corridors at night.”

“No problem,” Draco promised, clasping the Gryffindor’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He and Luna hurried up the staircase, which was long, lit by torches, and turned corners in unexpected places. At last they reached what appeared to be a solid wall. “Get under here,” Draco told Luna, pulling out the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it over both of them; then he gave the wall a little push.

It melted away at his touch, and they slipped outside; Draco glanced back and saw that it had resealed itself at once. They were standing in a dark corridor: Draco pulled Luna back into the shadows, fumbling in his jacket for the Marauder’s Map. Holding it close to his nose he searched, and eventually located his and Luna’s dots.

“We’re up on the fifth floor,” he whispered, watching Filch moving away from them a corridor ahead. “Come on, this way.” Together they crept off. Draco had prowled the castle at night many times before--but never had his heart hammered this fast, never had so much depended on his safe passage through the place. Through squares of moonlight upon the floor, past suits of armor whose helmets creaked at the sound of their soft footsteps, around corners beyond which who knew what lurked, Draco and Luna walked, checking the Marauder’s Map whenever the light permitted, twice pausing to allow a ghost to pass without drawing attention to themselves.

He expected to encounter an obstacle at any moment; his worst fear was Peeves, and he strained his ears with every step to hear the first, telltale signs of the poltergeist’s approach. “This way, Draco,” Luna breathed, plucking his sleeve and pulling him toward a spiral staircase. They climbed in tight, dizzying circles; Draco had never been up here before. At last they reached a door.

There was no handle and no keyhole: nothing but a plain expanse of aged wood, and a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. Luna reached out a pale hand, which looked eerie floating in midair, unconnected to arm or body. She knocked once, and in the silence it sounded to Draco like a cannon blast.

At once the beak of the eagle opened; but instead of a bird’s call, a soft, musical voice said, “Which came first, the phoenix or the flame?”

“Hmm...I don’t know, what do you think, Draco?” Luna asked him, looking thoughtful.

“What? Isn’t there just a password?”

“Oh no, you’ve got to answer a question,” Luna explained.

“What if you get it wrong?”

“Well, you have to wait for somebody who gets it right,” Luna said. “That way you learn, you see?”

“Yes...the trouble is, we can’t really afford to wait for anyone else, Luna.”

“No, I see what you mean,” Luna replied seriously. “Well then, I think the answer is that a circle has no beginning.”

“Well-reasoned,” the voice said, and the door swung open. The deserted Ravenclaw common room was a wide, circular room, airier than any Draco had ever seen at Hogwarts. Graceful arched windows punctuated the walls, which were hung with blue-and-bronze silks. By day, he could tell, the Ravenclaws would have a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. The ceiling was domed and painted with stars, which were echoed in the midnight-blue carpet.

There were tables, chairs, and bookcases, and in a niche opposite the door stood a tall statue of white marble. Draco recognized Rowena Ravenclaw from the bust he had seen at Luna’s house, though of course this one was not crowned with a strange amalgamation of feathers and knick knacks. The statue stood beside a door that led, he guessed, to dormitories above.

He strode right up to the marble woman; she seemed to look back down at him with a quizzical half-smile on her face, beautiful yet slightly intimidating. A delicate-looking circlet had been reproduced in marble on top of her head; it was not unlike the tiara Fleur had worn at her wedding.

Moving closer, Draco stared up at the statue of Ravenclaw, eyes zeroing in on the diadem. It was really quite lovely in it’s design, even if it was all white and lacking any really fine detail. But it was enough for his mind to start scrambling, feeling like it was familiar, like something out of a dream he once had but couldn’t quite remember.

There were tiny words etched into it. Draco stepped out from under the Cloak and climbed up onto Ravenclaw’s plinth to read them.  _ “‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.’” _

Only then did his eyes widen, thinking of his last year at Hogwarts and being locked in the Room of Requirement for hours on end, working on the Vanishing Cabinet...and of the bust that stood on a cupboard shelf not even five feet away, with an ugly white wig, and an old discolored tiara. “Oh you’re  _ kidding  _ me!”

“And you’d know all about kidding wouldn’t you?” A voice sneered from the darkness, causing Draco to whirl around so fast he slipped off of the plinth, staring into the shadows as the sloping-shouldered figure of Alecto Carrow emerged, her face filled with disbelief and rage. “After all…you’re supposed to be dead.”

“I’m a Slytherin,” Draco shot back. “We always manage to get out of tight spots.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question. But I think we both know the answer.” He drew himself to his full height then, letting his wand slide from his sleeve and into his palm. “But I’m not surprised that no one has made the connection yet. Death Eaters aren’t always the brightest in the bunch. The Dragon has come home, you filthy bitch. We’re taking back Hogwarts. It’s going to end, once and for all.”

It took Alecto only a few seconds to realize what he meant, and then her face colored with more rage. “Why, you filthy little blood traitor,” she hissed, grabbing her sleeve and yanking it up to expose the Dark Mark. “You won’t live much longer, not if the Dark Lord has anything to do with it.”

Before Draco could stop her, she pressed a stubby forefinger to the skull and snake branded tattoo on her arm, and his own Mark burned in recognition of the summons. The pain was different than it had been for the last several hours--this was not rage.

Wherever he was, near or far, his arrival back at Hogwarts imminent, Riddle was not angry now. Now, he was elated. Now he knew that his enemy was found, and he was coming for the Dragon.

A loud bang brought Draco crashing back to the present; disoriented, he raised his wand defensively, but the witch before him was already falling forward. She hit the ground so hard that the glass in the bookcases tinkled.

“I’ve never Stunned anyone except in our D.A. lessons,” Luna remarked, sounding mildly interested. “That was noisier than I thought it would be.” And sure enough, the ceiling had begun to tremble. Scurrying, echoing footsteps were growing louder from behind the door leading to the dormitories: Luna’s spell had woken Ravenclaws sleeping above.

“Luna, where are you? I need to get under the Cloak!” Luna’s feet appeared out of nowhere; Draco hurried to her side and she let the Cloak fall back over them just as the door opened and a stream of Ravenclaws, all in their nightclothes, flooded into the common room.

There were gasps and cries of surprise as they saw Alecto lying there unconscious. Slowly they shuffled in around her, a savage beast that might wake at any moment and attack them. Then one brave little first-year darted up to her and prodded her backside with his big toe. “I think she might be dead!” he gasped with delight.

“Oh, look,” Luna whispered happily, as the rest of the Ravenclaws crowded around Alecto. “They’re pleased!”

“Yes...great...” Draco closed his eyes, his heart skipping a terrified beat when there came a rap on the common room door. Understandably, every Ravenclaw froze. From the other side, Draco heard the soft, musical voice that issued from the eagle door knocker.

“Where do Vanished objects go?”

“I dunno, do I? Shut it!” snarled an uncouth voice that Draco recognized at once; it was Amycus Carrow, the brother. “Alecto? Alecto? Are you there? Have you got him? Open the door!” The Ravenclaws were whispering amongst themselves, terrified. Then, without warning, there came a series of loud bangs, as though somebody was firing a gun into the door.  _ “Alecto! _ If he comes, and we haven’t got the Dragon—d’you want to go the same way as the Malfoys? _ Answer me!”  _ Amycus bellowed, shaking the door for all he was worth, but still it did not open.

The Ravenclaws were all backing away, and some of the most frightened began scampering back up the staircase to their beds. Then, just as Draco was wondering whether he ought not to blast open the door and Stun Amycus before the Death Eater could do anything else, a second, most familiar voice rang out beyond the door. “May I ask what you are doing, Professor Carrow?”

“Trying—to get—through this damned—door!” Amycus snarled back at her. “Go and get Flitwick! Get him to open it, now!”

“But isn’t your sister in there?” Professor McGonagall, sounding dry and unimpressed. “Didn’t Professor Flitwick let her in earlier this evening, at your urgent request? Perhaps she could open the door for you? Then you needn’t wake up half the castle.”

“She ain’t answering, you old besom! You open it! Garn! Do it, now!”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” McGonagall replied with awful coldness. There was a genteel tap of the knocker and the musical voice asked again, “Where do Vanished objects go?”

“Into nonbeing, which is to say, everything,” McGonagall replied.

“Nicely-phrased,” the eagle door knocker complimented, and the door swung open.

The few Ravenclaws who had remained behind sprinted for the stairs as Amycus burst over the threshold, brandishing his wand. Hunched like his sister, he had a pallid, doughy face and tiny eyes, which fell at once on Alecto, sprawled motionless on the floor. He let out a yell of fury and fear. “What’ve they done, the little whelps?” he screamed. “I’ll Cruciate the lot of ’em till they tell me who did it—and what’s the Dark Lord going to say?” he shrieked, standing over his sister and smacking himself on the forehead with his fist. “We haven’t got him, and they’ve gorn and killed her!”

“She’s only Stunned,” McGonagall said impatiently, who had stooped down to examine Alecto. “She’ll be perfectly all right.”

“No she bludgering well won’t!” Amycus bellowed. “Not after the Dark Lord gets hold of her! She’s gorn and sent for him, I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we’ve got the Dragon!”

“‘Got the Dragon’?” McGonagall asked sharply. “What do you mean, ‘got the Dragon?”

“He told us that the bastard might try and get inside Ravenclaw Tower, and to send for him if we caught him! She summoned him, he’ll think the Dragon’s here!”

“Why would the Dragon, if he indeed exists, try to get inside Ravenclaw Tower?” McGonagall demanded. “Are you suggesting that they are a Ravenclaw student, this Dragon? Just who does your master believe him to be?”

“We was told he might come in here!” Amycus snapped back. “I dunno why, do I?”

McGonagall stood up and her beady eyes swept the room. Twice they passed right over the place where Draco and Luna stood beneath the Cloak. “We can push it off on the kids,” Amycus growled, his piglike face suddenly crafty. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll say Alecto was ambushed by the kids, them kids up there—” He looked up at the starry ceiling toward the dormitories. “—and we’ll say they forced her to press her Mark, and that’s why he got a false alarm....he can punish them. Couple of kids more or less, what’s the difference?”

“Only the difference between truth and lies, courage and cowardice,” McGonagall said, who had turned pale, “A difference, in short, which you and your sister seem unable to appreciate. But let me make one thing very clear. You are not going to pass off your many ineptitudes on the students of Hogwarts. I shall not permit it.”

“Excuse me?” Amycus moved forward until he was offensively close to her, his face within inches of hers. She refused to back away, but looked down at him as if he were something disgusting she had found stuck to a lavatory seat. “It’s not a case of what you’ll permit, Minerva McGonagall. Your time’s over. It’s us what’s in charge here now, and you’ll back me up or you’ll pay the price.”

And he spat in her face.

Draco slipped out from under the Cloak, leaving Luna safely covered, and raised his wand. “You shouldn’t have done that.” As Amycus spun around, Draco growled, “Crucio!”

The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass, he smashed into the front of a bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. “I see what my aunt meant,” Draco said rather dispassionately, the blood thundering through his brain. “You do need to really mean it.”

“Malfoy!” McGonagall whispered, clutching her heart. “Malfoy—you  _ are _ here! What—? How—?” She struggled to pull herself together. “Malfoy, that was foolish!”

“He spat at you,” Draco said simply, lowering his wand again as he looked at the Head of Gryffindor House.

“I—well--Malfoy, th-that was very—very gallant of you—but don’t you realize—?”

“Oh yes, I do,” Draco assured her. Somehow her panic only served to help steady him. “Professor McGonagall, Riddle is on the way. Voldemort--his real name was Riddle, you taught him. Tom Riddle,” he added for clarification, at her confused expression.

“Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?” Luna asked, still with an air of interest, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak. This appearance of a second outlaw seemed to overwhelm Professor McGonagall, who staggered backward and fell into a nearby chair, clutching at the neck of her old tartan dressing gown.

“I don’t think it makes any difference what we call him anymore,” Draco told Luna. “He already knows where I am.” His arm was absolutely throbbing now, back and forth between agony and just dull ache, and Draco knew that Riddle was going to be there soon.

“You must flee,” McGonagall urged him. “Now, Malfoy, as quickly as you can!”

“I can’t,” he replied gently. “There’s something I need to do. Professor, do you know where the diadem of Ravenclaw is?”

“The d-diadem of Ravenclaw? Of course not—hasn’t it been lost for centuries?” She sat up a little straighter. “Malfoy, it was madness, utter madness, for you to enter this castle—”

“I had to,” Draco cut her off. “Professor, there’s something hidden here that I’m supposed to find, and it could be the diadem—if I could just speak to Professor Flitwick—”

There was a sound of movement, of clinking glass: Amycus was coming round. Before Draco or Luna could act, Professor McGonagall rose to her feet, her face instantly sharpening with anger. She pointed her wand at the groggy Death Eater and said, “Imperio.”

Amycus got up, walked over to his sister, picked up her wand, then shuffled obediently to McGonagall and handed it over along with his own. Then he lay down on the floor beside Alecto. McGonagall waved her wand again, and a length of shimmering silver rope appeared out of thin air and snaked around the Carrows, binding them tightly together.

“Malfoy,” McGonagall said, turning to face him again with superb indifference to the Carrows’ predicament, “if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does indeed know that you are here—”

As she said it, a wrath that was like physical pain blazed through Draco’s body, setting his arm once more on fire, and he was absolutely sure that Riddle had learned of another Horcrux gone missing, destroyed—“Malfoy, are you all right?” a voice broke through, and Draco was brought back: He was clutching Luna’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Time’s running out, Riddle’s getting nearer. Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, I must find what he wanted me to find! But we’ve got to get the students out while I’m searching the castle—it’s me who Riddle wants, but he won’t care about killing a few more or less, not now—”

“You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” she repeated with a look of dawning wonder. Then she drew herself up to her fullest height. “We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search for this—this object.”

“Is that possible?” Draco asked, surprised and hopeful.

“I think so,” Professor McGonagall replied dryly, “We teachers are rather good at magic, you know. I am sure we will be able to hold him off for a while if we all put our best efforts into it.” She paused, her brows drawing together. “Of course...it would be unwise for Professor Snape to remain inside of Hogwarts. When push comes to shove, he cannot be forced into either having to reveal the truth...or act against his own people.”

Draco sucked in a breath. She was right--and he knew that he could handle this. “Leave that to me,” he promised. “Begin preparing the castle, and I’ll warn Severus. He--he can go to Riddle under the guise of finding out why the Mark was pressed.” He swallowed, his adrenaline surging afresh.

“Very well. The sooner he departs, the safer his cover will remain. And if Hogwarts is about to enter a state of siege, with the Dark Lord at the gates, it would indeed be advisable to take as many innocent people out of the way as possible. With the Floo Network under observation, and Apparition impossible within the grounds—”

“There’s a way,” Draco told her quickly, and he explained about the passageway leading into the Hog’s Head.

“Malfoy, we’re talking about  _ hundreds _ of students—”

“I know, Professor, but if Riddle and the Death Eaters are concentrating on the school boundaries they won’t be interested in anyone who’s Disapparating out of the Hog’s Head.”

“There’s something in that,” she agreed. She pointed her wand at the Carrows, and a silver net fell upon their bound bodies, tied itself around them, and hoisted them into the air, where they dangled beneath the blue-and-gold ceiling like two large, ugly sea creatures. “Come along, then. We must alert the other Heads of House. You’d better put that Cloak back on until you can break away and go in search of Professor Snape.”

She marched toward the common room door, and as she did so she raised her wand. From the tip burst three silver cats with spectacle markings around their eyes; the Patronuses ran sleekly ahead, filling the spiral staircase with silvery light as Professor McGonagall, Draco, and Luna hurried back down.


	43. Night Will Come Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘We’re fighting. We’re taking a stand.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry--feels time. :D

Along the corridors they raced, and one by one the Patronuses left them, darting away along differing routes. Professor McGonagall’s tartan dressing gown rustled over the floor, and Draco and Luna jogged behind her under the Cloak. They made their way with intention down from Ravenclaw Tower in the general direction of the main floor of the castle, but stopped when the first of the Patronuses brought someone to answer McGonagall’s summons.

“Minerva?” Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout were trotting towards them along two different corridors, both also in their nightclothes. “What on earth--what did you mean, an attack is coming? What’s happening?”

“Wait a moment,” she instructed; a moment later Draco heard more footsteps, and from around another corner Professor Slughorn appeared, huffing and panting heavily as he reached them. Draco was impressed that the older wizard had actually made the effort to run all the way. “Good, you’re all here. Now--Mr. Malfoy?”

Surprised, Draco removed the Cloak and put it away; Luna smoothed down her hair, freed from its weight, and Draco stepped to McGonagall’s side as the three other Heads of Houses gasped, gaping at the sight of him. “Draco, m’boy!” Slughorn boomed. “You’re alive--thank Merlin! And  _ here, _ but--how? Why?”

“Voldemort is coming,” Draco told them simply. “Everything is about to come to a head.” He looked at McGonagall, who nodded at him. “I’ll meet you all downstairs. You need to start gathering the students. Luna, stay with the professors.”

“Go,” McGonagall affirmed. “Oh--Malfoy, the password’s ‘Veritaserum.’”

“Thanks.” Leaving it to McGonagall to more thoroughly explain the imminent conflict, Draco turned, breaking into a run and continuing along the passageways until he approached the achingly familiar corridor-end where a stone gargoyle stood guard. Draco panted out the word, and the gargoyle sprang lightly aside, granting him access to the rotating stone staircase that carried him upward to the door of the Headmaster’s study.

As soon as he reached the landing, he rushed for the door, only to skid to a halt when it was wrenched open.

Severus stood there, dressed in his usual all-black attire. The bags under his eyes were more than enough to prove he hadn’t slept, no doubt due to Voldemort’s suspicion that the 'Dragon’ would try to break into Hogwarts. If the Carrows had had their orders, then so did Severus, as Voldemort’s most trusted advisor...as ironic enough as that was.

The very second they made eye contact, the tension seemed to fade marginally from the older man’s posture. “Draco.” Before Draco could reply, Severus had grabbed his shoulder, yanking the teenager in for a tight hug, which was...surprising. He didn’t think his godfather had ever hugged him before.

“He’s coming,” Draco said softly.

“I know.” After a few moments, he was released and ushered quickly into the office, which thankfully remained unchanged with Severus in charge, and the door was shut behind him. “I have been feeling the Dark Mark burning on and off for days. What exactly have you gotten yourself into? What are you even doing here?”

“I’m looking for something,” Draco replied, “And I know where it is. I just needed to…” His voice cracked, the exhaustion and the constant adrenaline rushes finally getting to him, his eyes feeling hot. “My parents, are they--?”

“They’re still alive,” Severus said shortly. “The Dark Lord was none too pleased with your escape, but Narcissa and Lucius were not punished as severely as Greyback and Bellatrix were.” His black eyes searched Draco’s, frowning a little. “If you intend to fight him here, tonight, then everyone will know you’re alive, and a traitor to the Death Eaters. People will aim to kill you on sight.”

“Which is why I plan to stay as hidden as possible,” Draco said firmly. “First chance we get to finally kill the bastard, I’ll be the one to do it. It has to be me.”

It would have been Harry Potter, had he survived that horrible night three years before. But it was as Draco had told Slughorn, and had been reminded of by Dumbledore several times; he had taken up Harry’s mantle. It would, essentially, fall onto his shoulders to kill Voldemort, and he couldn’t hesitate, not even for a heartbeat. While it still made him nervous, knowing he had to kill someone on purpose, his resolve was set.

It was time for Tom Riddle to perish.

Severus sighed, a quiet sound, but one that sounded frustrated, worried and relieved all at the same time. “I must return to his side,” he said, “As soon as he arrives at the boundary line. I cannot linger much longer.”

“I know. I just…first, there’s something I need to give to you.” And Draco wasn’t sure how he had come to this decision, but he knew it was the right one. His godfather had sacrificed so much in this long-drawn-out war, and had lost the people he held most dear. It would not be right to leave him without some kind of hope to hold onto.

Digging into the inside pocket of his cloak, Draco tugged out the Gaunt ring. The Resurrection Stone remained intact, though the sign of the Deathly Hallows, the Peverell Coat of Arms, was still split down the middle. Without hesitation, he pushed it into Severus’ hands. “It’s the Resurrection Stone, from the story of the Three Brothers. Don’t ask me how I got it or why I know what it is, I just do. And I want you to be the one to use it.”

Severus blinked, looking surprised. “What on earth--”

“I thought about using it,” Draco admitted. “Several times. There were people I wanted to talk to… To see one more time…” Like Dobby, faithful little house elf until the end. Or maybe Ted, just to meet him, and apologize for not being able to reveal himself when he had the chance.

But most importantly, Draco had wondered a few times if he could use it to call Harry, to beg forgiveness, to promise he would do everything in his power to defeat Voldemort. In the end, though, as Hermione had once said, it wouldn’t bring the closure he felt like he wanted. It would only just set him back to the starting point of grief, and he didn’t need to lose focus any time soon, could not afford to.

But Severus could.

“When you’re done with it,” Draco went on, “I need you to hide it somewhere. Or put it somewhere no one can gain access to it. It’s still dangerous. If it falls into the wrong hands…”

“...I assure you, I will make sure it stays safe.” From beyond the window, a very faint light flashed, and Severus grimaced slightly. “Go. I’ll find you when I have the opportunity to.”

Draco nodded and started for the door, only to hesitate as soon as his hand grasped the knob. “Severus… If...if I don’t make it--”

“You will. I have complete faith in you.”

“But if I don’t, for real this time… Will you tell my parents what I’ve done? What I managed to accomplish?”

Severus inclined his head. “I will. Now go. And be safe.”

Draco looked back, taking in his godfather’s features. So many memories ran through his mind, from an early child meeting Severus for the first time, and being the only one not intimidated by his somewhat surly appearance, to learning potions under his careful guidance, earning his praise when he accomplished his goals, coming to see the man as a second father figure to him.

He didn’t know what might happen, if neither of them saw each other again. But he could hold tight to those memories regardless.

Another nod, and he vanished through the door.

Standing alone in the Headmaster’s office, Severus watched Draco leave before he dropped his gaze, staring down at the ring in his palm. It was the same one that Dumbledore had worn just two years prior, the one that had cursed him so savagely. It still looked old and broken, but the stone within it gleamed. His mother’s low voice whispered through his mind, telling him the tale of the Three Brothers.

Slowly, feeling almost foolish, he closed his eyes and turned the ring thrice in his hand. For a long moment, there was nothing but stillness, before he reopened his eyes. Standing before him, looking at him with a tenderness he never thought he would see again, was a young woman with gleaming dark red hair, and emerald green eyes.

“Lily…”

* * *

Now that he knew that Severus would be safe and remain undercover, Draco moved as fast as his legs could carry him. He hurtled back down through the castle, along familiar corridors and around bends, occasionally spotting other students or ghosts but never slowing. If anybody saw him and recognized him, no one called out, and Draco didn’t care if he was seen now.

When he reached the Great Hall, he found it slowly beginning to fill with people. The staff were all present, more or less grouped enough to maintain some order to the Houses. The tables had all been removed, and as Prefects and Head Boys and Girls shepherded their Housemates into the enormous room, they clumped into small cliques that sometimes overlapped between Houses, friends and siblings finding each other, and holding on tightly as they watched McGonagall converse with the other professors, waiting to be told what was going on.

The D.A. were all there as well, and Draco felt a trickle of pride at seeing them seemingly stepping up to be on level with the student leaders in helping the teachers maintain order. He made his way through the mob towards the raised dais at the front, where McGonagall stood with Neville and Luna at her sides.

As he moved forward, Draco didn’t miss that  _ now, _ many people were spotting him and reacting. There were shocked murmurs and whispers, startled gasps of his name--some utterances of “I thought he was dead!” or similar--but he ignored all of it, pushing forward until he reached the Deputy Headmistress.

“Professor McGonagall?” A student Draco didn’t recognize, wearing the bejeweled badge of a Slytherin Prefect, stared up at them with wide eyes. “What is happening? And where is Professor Snape?”

“Our headmaster is taking a short break,” McGonagall replied. From throughout the crowded hall, Draco heard mixed reactions; some small hoots, people who’d had no idea the truth of Severus’ loyalty, as well as some confusion and some protests.

But he blocked all of that out in an instant; his arm seared with pain, and Draco didn’t even have to lift his sleeve to see that the skin of his wrist was raw and reddened. He had no doubt that the skin around the whole of the Mark would look rather similar to how it had when they’d tumbled out of the Lestrange vault, with all its cursed, flesh-burning false treasures. “Professor, we’ve got to barricade the school, he’s coming now!” Draco said, gritting his teeth to defy the stinging ache.

“Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming,” she told the other teachers, standing up tall and straight. Those who weren’t House Heads all gasped; this was news to them, of course. “Mr. Malfoy here has work to do in the castle, on Dumbledore’s orders.” Both McGonagall and Draco ignored the shocked glances flung his way from the staff members who weren’t Order members. “We need to put in place every protection of which we are capable while Malfoy does what he needs to do.”

“You realize, of course, that nothing we do will be able to keep out You-Know-Who indefinitely?” Flitwick squeaked, though his face was hardening with resolve even as he said it.

“But we can hold him up,” Professor Sprout chipped in.

“Thank you, Pomona,” McGonagall said appreciatively, and between the two witches there passed a look of grim understanding. “I suggest we establish basic protection around the place, then start evacuating the students, though if any of those who are over age wish to stay and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance.”

“Agreed,” Professor Sprout affirmed, already hurrying toward the door. “I shall return here in twenty minutes with the needed supplies...” And as she jogged out of sight, they could hear her muttering, “Tentacula. Devil’s Snare. And Snargaluff pods...yes, I’d like to see the Death Eaters fighting those.”

“I can act from here,” Flitwick announced, and although he could barely see out of it, he pointed his wand at the nearest window; Vanishing the glass, he started muttering incantations of great complexity. Draco could hear a strange rushing noise, as though Flitwick had unleashed the power of the wind into the grounds.

“Very good, Filius!” McGonagall affirmed, beckoning to Draco to join her, Luna, and Neville. “Horace, do you have any thoughts?”

“Some,” the Potions master said, frowning thoughtfully. “Some potentially useful concoctions--quick and easy to whip up--can be used to hinder oncoming forces, confuse the senses, make floors impassable--I shall look into this, and I’ve a few talented pupils who can assist--I’ll manage--” He patted Draco’s shoulder in passing. “Shame I cannot utilize your fine brain and skill, Draco, but so be it. Off we go!”

Draco smiled after him as he moved to Professor McGonagall’s side, who had taken up a position in the middle of the corridor and raised her wand. “Piertotum—oh, for heaven’s sake, Filch, not now—”

The aged caretaker had just come hobbling into view, shouting, “Students out of bed! Students in the corridors!”

“They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!” McGonagall snapped sharply. “Now go and do something constructive! Find Peeves!”

“P-Peeves?” Filch stammered, as though he had never heard the name before.

“Yes, Peeves, you fool, Peeves! Haven’t you been complaining about him for a quarter of a century? Go and fetch him, at once!” Filch evidently thought Professor McGonagall had taken leave of her senses; but still he hobbled away, hunch-shouldered, muttering under his breath.

“And now—Piertotum Locomotor!” McGonagall cried more loudly. All along the corridor the statues and suits of armor jumped down from their plinths, and from the echoing crashes from the floors above and below, Draco knew that their fellows throughout the castle had done the same.

“Hogwarts is threatened!” McGonagall shouted commandingly. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do your duty to our school!”

Clattering and yelling, the horde of moving statues stampeded past Draco: some of them smaller, others far larger than life. There were stone animals too, and the clanking suits of armor brandished swords and spiked balls on chains. “Now, Malfoy,” McGonagall continued. “You and Miss Lovegood had better gather any of your friends still coming through that Hogsmeade passage of yours, and bring them all to the Great Hall—I shall manage things here.”

They both nodded, and turned to go at once, running back toward the concealed entrance to the Room of Requirement. As they ran, they encountered thinning trickles of students, most now wearing traveling cloaks over their pajamas, being hurried down to the Great Hall by teachers and Prefects.

At last they reached the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Draco leaned against the enchanted wall, which opened to admit them, and he and Luna sped back down the steep staircase. “Wh—?” As the room came into view, Draco stumbled, and slipped down a few stairs in shock.

It was packed, far more crowded than when he had last been in there. Kingsley, Sirius, and Remus were looking up at him, as were Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, Bill and Fleur, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

“Draco, what’s happening?” Remus asked, meeting him at the foot of the stairs. Sirius was close behind him, and Draco returned his fierce hug distractedly as he focused on answering the question.

“Riddle--Voldemort--he’s on his way, they’re barricading the school—Severus has gone, I warned him in time, so he doesn’t get exposed as one of us—what are you all doing here? How did you know to come?”

“We sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore’s Army,” Fred explained. “You couldn’t expect everyone to miss the fun, Draco? And the D.A. let the Order of the Phoenix know, and it all kind of snowballed.”

“What first, Draco?” George called. “What’s going on out there?”

“They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s meeting in the Great Hall to get organized,” Draco summarized. “We’re fighting. We’re taking a stand.”

There was a great roar of approval and a surge toward the foot of the stairs; Draco was pressed back against the wall as they all ran past him, the mingled members of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, all with their wands drawn, heading out into the main castle to join the rest of their allies. “Come on, Luna,” Dean called out eagerly as he passed, holding out his free hand; she took it and followed him back up the stairs.

The crowd was thinning; only a little knot of people remained below in the Room of Requirement, and Draco moved to join them. Mrs. Weasley was struggling with Ginny. Around them stood Remus, Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur. “You’re underage!” Molly Weasley shouted at her daughter as Draco approached. “I won’t permit it! The boys, yes, but you, you’ve got to go home!”

“I won’t!” Ginny’s hair flew as she pulled her arm out of her mother’s grip. “I’m in Dumbledore’s Army—”

“A teenagers’ gang!”

“A teenagers’ gang that’s about to take him on, which no one else has dared to do!” Fred interjected pointedly.

“She’s sixteen!” Molly snapped at her son. “She’s not old enough! What you two were thinking, bringing her with you—” At that, Fred and George did look slightly ashamed of themselves.

“Mum’s right, Ginny,” Bill told his only sister gently. “You can’t do this. Everyone underage will have to leave, it’s only right.”

“I can’t go home!” Ginny shouted, angry tears sparkling in her eyes. “My whole family’s here, I can’t stand waiting there alone and not knowing and—and bloody hell, you didn’t stop  _ Luna _ going just now, and she’s my--” She cut herself off; her eyes met Draco’s, and she looked at him beseechingly. But he shook his head, and she turned away bitterly.

“Fine,” she growled, staring at the entrance to the tunnel back to the Hog’s Head. “I’ll say good-bye now, then, and—”

There was a scuffling and a great thump: Someone else had clambered out of the tunnel, overbalanced slightly, and fallen. He pulled himself up on the nearest chair, looked around through lopsided horn-rimmed glasses, and said, “Am I too late? Has it started? I only just found out, so I—I—”

Abruptly Percy Weasley spluttered into silence. Evidently he had not expected to run into most of his family. There was a long moment of astonishment, broken by Fleur turning to Remus and saying, in a wildly transparent attempt to break the tension, “So—’ow eez leetle Teddy?”

Remus blinked at her, startled. The silence between the Weasleys seemed to be solidifying, like ice. “I—oh yes—he’s fine!” he replied loudly. “Yes, Tonks is with him—at her mother’s—” Percy and the other Weasleys were still staring at one another, frozen. “Here, I’ve got a picture!” Remus shouted, pulling a photograph from inside his jacket and showing it to Fleur and Draco, who saw a tiny baby with a tuft of bright turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera.

“I was a fool!” Percy roared, so loudly that Remus nearly dropped his photograph. “I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a—a—”

“Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron,” Fred offered, smirking.

Percy swallowed. “Yes, I was!”

“Well, you can’t say fairer than that,” Fred said cheerfully, holding out his hand to Percy.

Molly burst into tears at once. She ran forward, pushed Fred aside, and pulled Percy into a strangling hug, while he patted her on the back, his eyes on his father. “I’m sorry, Dad,” Percy said softly. Arthur blinked rather rapidly, then he too hurried to hug his son.

“What made you see sense, Perce?” George inquired, joining the family hug.

“It’s been coming on for a while,” Percy replied, mopping his eyes under his glasses with a corner of his traveling cloak. “But I had to find a way out and it’s not so easy at the Ministry, they’re imprisoning traitors all the time. I managed to make contact with Aberforth and he tipped me off ten minutes ago that Hogwarts was going to make a fight of it--so here I am.”

“Well, we do look to our Prefects to take a lead at times such as these,” George said, in a good imitation of Percy’s most pompous manner. “Now let’s get upstairs and fight, or all the good Death Eaters’ll be taken.”

“So, you’re my sister-in-law now?” Percy asked with interest, shaking hands with Fleur as they hurried off toward the staircase with Bill, Fred, and George.

“Ginny!” Molly barked warningly; Ginny had been attempting, under cover of the reconciliation, to sneak upstairs too.

“Molly, how about this,” Remus intervened. “Why doesn’t Ginny stay here, then at least she’ll be on the scene and know what’s going on, but she won’t be in the middle of the fighting?”

“I—”

“That’s a good idea,” Arthur agreed firmly. “Ginny, you stay in this room, you hear me?” Ginny did not seem to like the idea much, but under her father’s unusually stern gaze, she nodded. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Remus all headed off for the stairs, as well.

“Where’s Ron?” Draco asked, only then realizing that the two people he needed most were missing. His chest seemed to freeze up. “Where’s Hermione?”

“They must have gone up to the Great Hall already,” Arthur called over his shoulder.

“I didn’t see them pass me,” Draco protested.

“They said something about a bathroom,” Ginny interjected. “Not long after you left.”

“A bathroom?” Draco strode across the room to an open door leading off the Room of Requirement and checked the bathroom therein; it was empty. “You’re sure they said bath—?”

His arm seared; and the Room of Requirement wavered in his vision. The burning was different yet again, more intense--and underlying it was a strangely familiar prickling.  _ Close... _

Riddle was here.

Aching with worry over where Ron and Hermione had done, Draco forced himself to keep moving. He left Ginny--who was swearing profusely--in the Room of Requirement and hurried out again, making his way back down to the first floor.

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was dark and scattered with stars, and below it the four Houses were gathered all together, no longer distinguishing between them. The students were disheveled, some in traveling cloaks, others in their dressing gowns. Here and there shone the pearly white figures of the school ghosts. Every eye, living and dead, was fixed upon Professor McGonagall, who was speaking from the raised platform at the top of the Hall. Behind her stood the remaining teachers, including the palomino centaur, Firenze, and the members of the Order of the Phoenix who had arrived to fight.

“...evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you will organize your Houses and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.” Many of the students looked petrified. However, as Draco skirted the walls, scanning the hall desperately for Ron and Hermione, Ernie Macmillan stood up from among a clump of Hufflepuffs and shouted, “And what if we want to stay and fight?”

There was a smattering of applause. “If you are of age, you may stay,” McGonagall replied.

“What about our things?” called out a small girl standing among the Ravenclaws. “Our trunks, our owls?”

“We have no time to collect possessions,” McGonagall said heavily. “The important thing is to get you out of here safely.”

Draco moved up the hall alongside a long row of Gryffindors, still looking for Ron and Hermione. As he passed, faces turned in his direction, and a great deal of whispering broke out in his wake. “We have already placed protection around the castle,” Professor McGonagall was saying, “But it is unlikely to hold for very long unless we continuously reinforce it. I must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your Prefects—”

But her final words were drowned as a different voice echoed throughout the Great Hall. It was high, cold, and clear; there was no telling from where it came. It seemed to issue from the walls themselves. Like the monster that it had once commanded, decades and years before, it might have lain dormant there for centuries.

_ “I know that you are preparing to fight.”  _ There were screams amongst the students, some of whom clutched each other, looking around in terror for the source of the sound. _ “Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you all; I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.” _

There was deafening silence in the hall now, the kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums, that seemed too huge to be contained by walls.  _ “I know, too, that you have among you within the castle a fugitive...who has been given the pseudonym the Dragon. Give me this individual,” _ Voldemort’s voice continued,  _ “...and none shall be harmed. Give me the Dragon, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me the Dragon, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.” _

The silence swallowed them all again.

Draco’s jaw was clenched tightly enough to make the very bones creak. He looked to the head of the Great Hall, watching as McGonagall seemed to rally herself. “Slytherin House will leave the Hall first, with Mr. Filch. The rest of you will follow in an orderly fashion.” Draco listened to the shuffling of feet and rustling of robes and cloaks; slowly the students began trooping out on the other side of the Hall.

“Ravenclaws, next!” Professor McGonagall called. Slowly the Great Hall emptied--but a number of older Ravenclaws remained seated while their fellows filed out; even more Hufflepuffs stayed behind, and half of Gryffindor remained in their seats, necessitating McGonagall’s descent from the teachers’ platform to chivvy the underage on their way. “Absolutely not, Creevey, go! And you, Peakes!”

To Draco’s shock, he realized that there was a significant smattering of green-robed students remaining behind, as well. He paused, staring at the Slytherins who were still there--roughly equal to the Ravenclaws, in number--and spotted quite a few of them gazing back at him with a sort of resolved, wide-eyed conviction.

It wasn’t until the last of the reluctant evacuees were taken from the Great Hall that Draco realized that every single eye was on him.

The Order, and the D.A., they all knew he was alive; but to everyone else, this was a bigger shock than having Lord Voldemort at the school’s boundary lines, and he knew that some of them were still suspicious, wondering what he was up to. After all, his father was a well-known Death Eater, as was Bellatrix; the shadows of his family’s past would cling to him unless he did something about it, here and now.

Acting on impulse again--what was it with acting on his impulses tonight?--Draco moved to climb up onto the staff table, commanding everyone’s attention as he made himself the tallest figure in the room.

“You all know me,” he called out, “But you may only remember me as the pompous little twat who has bullied you, and degraded many of you, in a most unbecoming manner. But I stand before you all right now a changed man--and I have been, since the age of fifteen.” Draco drew a deep breath. “I am the Dragon, and I’ve been involved in fighting against Voldemort since the beginning of my fifth year at Hogwarts, right after the murders of Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory.”

There was an outbreak of shocked murmuring from the crowd, everyone watching him with rapt attention. The Order members were helping to barricade the school, as were the D.A. members, but those who could stand and listen to him did so, with pride beginning to shine on their faces.

“I cannot begin to say how sorry I am for the actions of my youth,” Draco went on. “I cannot even fathom earning forgiveness from any of you. But what I can promise is that I no longer stand by the pureblood ideology. I have shunned the Death Eaters, and my own family, to stand with you tonight. I will fight for Hogwarts. I will fight for Dumbledore. And I will fight for Harry Potter, for Cedric Diggory, and for every witch, wizard and Muggle who have lost their lives during this senseless war.” He raised his wand in the air then, shooting off sparks. “I fight for you all. Who’s with me?”

It only took a few seconds--but the sound of the students cheering, as well as the Order of the Phoenix, was enough to make the Great Hall almost shake with the force of their enthusiasm. And Draco, for one blessed moment, had faith that maybe they wouldn’t lose many lives tonight.

He had hope.

As the students began being organized by the staff, and taking up their tasks in defense of the castle, Draco hurried over to the Weasleys, who were all sticking close together “Where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Haven’t you found—?” Arthur began, looking worried. But he broke off as Kingsley stepped forward on the raised platform to address those who had remained behind.

“We’ve only got half an hour until midnight, so we need to act fast! A battle plan has been agreed between the teachers of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to the three highest towers—Ravenclaw, Astronomy, and Gryffindor—where they’ll have a good overview, excellent positions from which to work spells. Meanwhile Remus—” He indicated the werewolf, who nodded. “—Arthur, and I will take groups into the grounds. We’ll need somebody to organize defense of the entrances of the passageways into the school—”

“Sounds like a job for us,” Fred called out, gesturing to himself and George, and Kingsley nodded his approval.

“All right, leaders up here and we’ll divide up the troops!”

“Malfoy,” McGonagall said, hurrying up to him as more students flooded the platform, jostling for position, receiving instructions, “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for something?”

“What? Oh,” Draco gasped, “Oh yes!” He had almost forgotten about the Horcrux, almost forgotten that the battle was being fought so that he could go and collect--and destroy--it. The inexplicable absence of Ron and Hermione had momentarily driven every other thought from his mind.

“Then  _ go, _ Malfoy, go!”

“Right—yes—” Draco allowed himself to be swept out of the Great Hall and up the marble staircase with the remaining students--but at the top he hurried off along a deserted corridor. Fear and panic were clouding his thought processes; he tried to calm himself, to concentrate on finding Ron and Hermione, but his thoughts buzzed as frantically and fruitlessly as wasps trapped beneath a glass.

He forced himself to slow down, coming to a halt halfway along an empty passage; there he sat down upon the plinth of a departed statue and pulled the Marauder’s Map out. He could not see Ron’s or Hermione’s names anywhere on it, though perhaps the density of the crowd of dots now making its way to the Room of Requirement was concealing them. He put the map away, pressed his hands over his face, and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

Finding Ron and Hermione came first; but once he did, then they needed to enter the Room of Requirement in its unique form as the Room of Hidden Things. And that would mean waiting for all of the evacuating students to pass through it into the tunnel to the Hog’s Head--and asking Ginny to wait outside of the room, which was risky--but they had no other choice.

Steeling himself, Draco rose to his feet again.

The sound of hundreds of people marching toward the Room of Requirement grew louder and louder as he returned to the marble stairs. Prefects were shouting instructions, trying to keep track of the students in their own Houses; there was much pushing and shoving; Draco’s lip curled as he saw Zacharias Smith bowling over first-years to get to the front of the queue; here and there younger students were in tears, while older ones called desperately for friends or siblings, trying to stay together.

Draco turned a corner, but he had taken only a few steps down the new corridor when the window to his left broke open with a deafening, shattering crash. As he leapt aside, a gigantic body flew in through the window and hit the opposite wall. Something large and furry detached itself, whimpering, from the new arrival--and then it flung itself at Draco, spraying slobber. 

“Hagrid!” Draco cried out, fighting off Fang saliva-heavy attentions as the enormous bearded figure clambered to his feet. “What the—?”

“Draco! Yer alive, yer here! Yer here!” Hagrid stooped down, bestowed upon Draco a cursory and rib-cracking hug, then he ran back to the shattered window. “Good boy, Grawpy!” he bellowed through the hole in the window. “I’ll see yer in a moment, there’s a good lad!”

Beyond Hagrid, out in the dark night, Draco saw bursts of light in the distance and heard a weird, keening scream. He looked down at his watch: It was midnight. The battle had begun.

“Blimey, Draco,” Hagrid panted at him. “So this is it, eh? Time fer the big fight?”

“Hagrid, where on earth have you come from?”

“Heard You-Know-Who talkin’ from up in our cave,'' Hagrid replied grimly. “Voice carried, didn’ it? ‘Yeh got till midnight ter gimme the Dragon.’ Knew that could only be yeh, and that yeh mus’ be here, knew what mus’ be happenin’. ...get down, Fang. So we come ter join in, me an’ Grawpy an’ Fang. Smashed our way through the boundary by the forest, Grawpy was carryin’ us, Fang an’ me. Told him ter let me down at the castle, so he shoved me through the window, bless him. Not exac’ly what I meant, bu’—where’s Ron an’ Hermione?”

“That,” Draco muttered, “Is a really excellent question. Come on.” They hurried together along the corridor, Fang lolloping beside them. Draco could hear movement through the corridors all around them--running footsteps, shouts--through the windows, he could see more flashes of light in the dark grounds.

“Where’re we goin’?” Hagrid asked breathlessly, pounding along at Draco’s heels, making the floorboards quake.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Draco admitted, making another random turn, “But Ron and Hermione must be around here somewhere....” The first casualties of the battle were already strewn across the passage ahead: The two stone gargoyles that usually guarded the entrance to the staffroom had been smashed apart by a jinx that had sailed through another broken window.

Their remains stirred feebly on the floor, and as Draco leapt over one of their disembodied heads, it moaned faintly, “Oh, don’t mind me...I’ll just lie here and crumble into dust...“

Professor Sprout came thundering past, followed by Neville and half a dozen others--all of them wearing earmuffs and carrying what appeared to be large potted plants. “Mandrakes!” Neville bellowed at Draco over his shoulder as he ran. “Going to lob them over the walls—they won’t like this!”

Draco now had an impulsive thought of where to go; he sped off, with Hagrid and Fang galloping behind him. They passed portrait after portrait, and the painted figures raced alongside them, wizards and witches in ruffs and breeches, in armor and cloaks, cramming themselves into each others’ canvases, screaming news from other parts of the castle.

As they reached the end of this corridor, the whole castle shook, and Draco knew, as a gigantic vase blew off its plinth with explosive force, that it was in the grip of enchantments more sinister than those of the teachers and the Order. “It’s all righ’, Fang—it’s all righ’!” Hagrid yelped, but the great boarhound had taken flight as slivers of china flew like shrapnel through the air, and Hagrid pounded off after the terrified dog without another word, leaving Draco alone.

Still, he forged on through the trembling passages, his wand at the ready. For the length of one corridor the ridiculous painted knight, Sir Cadogan, rushed from painting to painting beside him, clanking along in his armor, screaming encouragement, his fat little pony cantering behind him. “Braggarts and rogues, dogs and scoundrels, drive them out, good sir, see them off!”

Draco hurtled around a corner and came upon Fred and a small knot of students, including Lee and Hannah Abbott, standing beside another empty plinth, whose statue had concealed a secret passageway. Their wands were drawn and they were listening at the concealed hole. “Nice night for it!” Fred shouted at him as the castle quaked again, and Draco rolled his eyes as he sprinted by, elated and terrified in equal measure.

Along yet another corridor he dashed, and then there were owls everywhere, and Mrs. Norris was hissing and trying to bat them with her paws, no doubt to return them to their proper place--

“Dragon!” Aberforth Dumbledore stood blocking the corridor ahead, his wand raised. “I’ve had hundreds of kids thundering through my pub, boy!”

“I know that, we’re evacuating,” Draco snapped, “Voldemort’s—”

“—attacking, because they haven’t handed you over, yeah,” Aberforth said, “I’m not deaf, the whole of Hogsmeade heard him. Did it occur to any of you hero types to keep a few Slytherins hostage? There are kids of Death Eaters you’ve just sent to safety. Wouldn’t it have been a bit smarter to keep ’em here?”

“It wouldn’t stop him,” Draco replied shortly, continuing right past him without slowing. “And your brother would never have done it.”

Aberforth merely grunted, and then tore away in the opposite direction.

At last, he skidded around a final corner--and with a gasp of mingled relief and fury he saw them at last. Ron and Hermione came running to meet him, both with their arms full of large, curved, dirty yellow objects, Ron carrying a broomstick under his arm. “Where the hell have you been?” Draco demanded. “I was scared to  _ death--" _

“Chamber of Secrets,” Ron replied eagerly.

“Chamber—the-- _ what?”  _ Draco asked, coming to an unsteady halt before them.

“It was Ron, all Ron’s idea!” Hermione told him, grinning breathlessly. “Isn’t it absolutely brilliant? There we were, after you left, and I said to Ron, even if we find the other one, how are we going to get rid of it? We still hadn’t got rid of the cup! And then he thought of it! The basilisk!”

“What the— ?”

“Something to get rid of Horcruxes,” Ron reminded him simply. Draco’s eyes dropped to the objects clutched in Ron and Hermione’s arms: they were great curved fangs, torn, he now realized, that they had torn from the skull of a dead basilisk.

“But how did you get in there?” he asked in shock, staring from the fangs to Ron. “You said Harry needed to speak Parseltongue to open the door!”

“He did!” Hermione replied, still grinning hysterically. “Show him, Ron!”

Ron made a horrible, strangled hissing noise, causing Draco to rear back at the suddenness of it. “It’s what you did to open the locket,” he told Draco apologetically. “I had to have a few goes to get it right, but,” he shrugged modestly, “We got there in the end. No idea what I said, of course, but it  _ worked.” _

“He was amazing.” Hermione said firmly. “Absolutely amazing!”

“So...” Draco was struggling to keep up. “So you mean--”

”So we’re another Horcrux down,” Ron confirmed, and from under his jacket he pulled the mangled remains of Hufflepuff’s cup. “Hermione stabbed it. Thought she should. She hasn’t had the pleasure yet.”

“Genius!” Draco cried, gazing in delight at the destroyed goblet.

“It was nothing,” Ron said, though he looked highly pleased with himself. “So what’s new with you?”

As he asked it, there was another explosion from overhead. All three of them looked up as dust fell from the ceiling, and they heard a distant scream. “I know what the diadem looks like, and I know where it is,” Draco replied, talking fast. “I’ve even  _ seen _ the damned thing, that’s the real bitch of it. He hid it where everyone’s been hiding things for centuries. He thought he was the only one to find the place, the absolute arsehole. Come on.”

As the walls quaked again, he led the other two back through the concealed entrance and down the staircase into the Room of Requirement. It was empty except for three women: Ginny, Tonks, and an elderly witch wearing a moth-eaten hat. Draco drew up short, confused, and Hermione whispered in his ear that it was Neville’s grandmother.

“Ah, yes--Granger, wasn’t it? And Weasley,” she said crisply as if she had been waiting for their arrival. “And you look like a Malfoy, so I presume you’re their boy Draco. I’m glad you’re nothing like your father, particularly where loyalty is concerned. Good lad. You can tell us what’s going on.”

“Is everyone okay?” Ginny and Tonks asked together.

“As far as we know,” Draco confirmed. “Are there still people in the passage to the Hog’s Head?” He knew that the room would not be able to transform while there were still users inside it.

“I was the last to come through,” Mrs. Longbottom replied. “I sealed it, I think it unwise to leave it open, now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen my grandson?”

“He’s fighting,” Draco told her.

“Naturally,” the old witch said proudly. “Excuse me, I must go and assist him.” With surprising speed she trotted off toward the stone steps.

Draco looked at Tonks, worried. “I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at your mother’s?”

“I couldn’t stand not knowing—” Tonks looked anguished. “She’ll look after him—have you seen Remus?”

“He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the grounds—”

Without another word, Tonks sped off. “Ginny,” Draco started, “I’m sorry, but we need you to leave too. Just for a bit. Then you can come back in.” Ginny looked far too delighted to leave her sanctuary. “And then you can come back in!” he shouted after her as she ran up the steps after Tonks. “You’ve  _ got to come back in! _ Oh Merlin, Ron, your mum is gonna kill me.”

“Hang on a moment!” Ron suddenly said sharply. “We’ve forgotten someone!”

“Who?” Hermione asked in surprise.

Ron looked at Draco, and it was as if they’d formed a telepathic bond; he knew before Ron spoke, and was already nodding agreement. “The house elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchen, won’t they? We should tell them to get out. We don’t want any more Dobbies, do we? We can’t order them to die for us.”

Hermione was looking at her best friend as if she’d never seen him before, eyes brimming with pride and affection, and it made Draco smile a little. “We’ll try,” he agreed. “But for now--come on, we’ve got to do this now, we’re completely and utterly out of time.”

It was clear, as the three of them stepped back into the corridor upstairs, that in the mere minutes that they had spent in the Room of Requirement the situation within the castle had deteriorated severely. The walls and ceiling were shaking worse than ever; dust filled the air, and through the nearest window, Draco saw bursts of green and red light so close to the foot of the castle that he knew the Death Eaters must be very near to entering the place.

Looking down, Draco saw Grawp the giant thundering past, swinging what looked like a stone gargoyle torn from the roof and roaring his displeasure. “Let’s hope he steps on some of them!” Ron muttered, as more screams echoed from close by.

“As long as it’s not any of our lot!” called a voice; Draco turned and saw Ginny and Tonks, both with their wands drawn at the next window, which was missing several panes. Even as he watched, Ginny sent a well-aimed jinx into a crowd of fighters below.

“Good girl!” roared a figure running through the dust toward them, and Draco saw Aberforth once again, his gray hair flying as he led a small group of students past. “They look like they might be breaching the north battlements, they’ve brought giants of their own!”

“Have you seen Remus?” Tonks called after him desperately.

“He was dueling Dolohov,” Aberforth shouted back over his shoulder. “Haven’t seen him since!”

“Tonks,” Ginny gasped. “Tonks, I’m sure he’s okay—” But Tonks had run off into the dust after Aberforth. Ginny turned, helpless, to Draco, Ron, and Hermione.

“They’ll be all right,” Draco said, though he knew they were empty words. “Ginny, we’ll be back in a moment, just keep out of the way,  _ please  _ keep safe—come on!” he added to Ron and Hermione, and they ran back to the stretch of wall beyond which the Room of Requirement was waiting to do the bidding of the next entrant.

_ I need the place where everything is hidden,  _ Draco begged it inside his head, and the door materialized on their third run past.

The furor of the battle died the moment they crossed the thresh-old and closed the door behind them: in here, all was silent. They were in a place the size of a cathedral with the appearance of a city, its towering walls built of objects hidden by thousands of long-gone students. “And he never realized anyone could get in?” Ron asked, his voice echoing in the silence.

“I’m sure he  _ thought _ that he was the only one,” Draco scoffed. “Too bad for him we’ve all had to hide stuff in our time...and you know what, fuck, it’s his own bloody fault that I know where the diadem is.” Draco barked a laugh.  _ “He’s _ the moron who gave me a sodding suicide-mission task that had me practically living in this goddamn room all last year. This is bloody poetic justice, really.”

He drew a breath, then nodded. “...this way,” he said, starting to walk. “It’s down here somewhere....” They passed the stuffed troll, and Professor Trelawney’s secreted-away bottles of sherry; then Draco hesitated, looking up and down aisles of junk. For a moment, he was no longer certain of where to do next.

“Accio Diadem!” Hermione called in desperation, but nothing flew through the air toward them. It seemed that, like the vault at Gringotts, the room would not yield its hidden objects that easily.

“Let’s split up,” Draco told the other two. “Look for a stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara. It’s standing on a cupboard and it’s definitely somewhere near here....” They sped off up adjacent aisles; Draco could hear the others’ footsteps echoing through the towering piles of junk, of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, weapons, broomsticks, bats...

Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he went, looking for objects he recognized from his previous time in the cluttered room. His breath was loud in his ears.

And then his very soul seemed to shiver: There it was, right ahead, the Vanishing Cabinet that he had been forced to repair for such a terrible and fatal purpose, and then mere feet away from it, a blistered old cabinet. On top of it, the pockmarked stone warlock wearing a dusty old wig and an ancient, discolored tiara.

“There you are,” he muttered, immediately making a beeline for it.

He had already stretched out his hand, though he remained ten feet away, when a voice behind him said, “Hold it,  _ Malfoy.” _

Draco froze, hand immediately clenching into a fist with a sheer sudden pulse of rage he felt rush through his system. Then, with great effort, he lowered his arm and turned about, fixing a cold smile on his face even as Crabbe stood there, his wand pointed right at Draco’s forehead. “Vincent! How terribly inconvenient. Though you always had bad timing.”

“I  _ killed _ you!” Crabbe snarled. “I know I did, I saw you vanish in that fire!”

“Yes, well, you were never very good at anything in general,” Draco said waspishly. “I always had to drag your sorry arse through tests and exams, otherwise you’d still be in first year. Or you would have dropped out and saved me some trouble.”

Crabbe’s teeth became bared, his chubby face filled with a rage that was equal to the one that was simmering just below Draco’s skin. “I’ve gotten better,” he said. “Now that I’m learning in proper classes. The Carrows have taught me so much.”

“Like the Cruciatus Curse,” Draco said, “on  _ children. _ You must feel like such a  _ man, _ Vincent. Daddy must be so proud of you...for once.”

“And what of your parents?” Crabbe demanded. “How do you think they’ll feel when they watch you die for being a traitor of the worst kind? Hmm? I’m going to drag you to the Dark Lord by your bloody hair if I have to, and then I’ll be rewarded.”

“Interesting! Very interesting. However, I have another idea in mind.” He moved too fast for Crabbe to even think of a spell to defend himself with; in only a few short strides, Draco rushed forward, punching the other boy as hard as he could in the nose, sending him toppling backwards into a pile of rubble with a loud crash. “Oh wow, now I know what Hermione felt when she punched me. That felt  _ good.” _

“Draco?” Ron’s voice echoed suddenly from the other side of the wall to Draco right. “Are you talking to someone?”

Draco made the mistake of half-turning, trying to determine where Ron was; he missed Crabbe staggering back onto his feet, and with a whiplike movement, Crabbe pointed his wand at the fifty-foot mountain of old furniture--broken trunks, old books and robes and unidentifiable junk--and shouted, “Descendo!” The wall began to totter, and then the top third crumbled into the aisle next door where Ron stood.

“Ron!” Draco shouted, as somewhere out of sight Hermione screamed; Draco heard innumerable objects crashing to the floor on the other side of the destabilized wall. He pointed his wand at the rampart, cried, “Finite!” and watched with relief as it steadied.

“Draco?” Ron shouted again, still on the other side of the junk wall. “What’s going on?”

_ “‘Draco?’” _ mimicked Crabbe. “Oh, I’ll tell you what’s going—no you don’t!  _ Crucio!” _ Draco had lunged for the tiara; Crabbe’s curse missed him but hit the stone bust, which flew into the air, sending the diadem soaring upward before it dropped out of sight in the mass of objects on which the bust had rested.

A jet of scarlet light shot past Draco by inches: Hermione had run around the corner behind him and sent a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe’s head. It only missed because abruptly, Goyle had appeared, barreling into Crabbe and pushing him out of the way.

“I should have known!” Crabbe snarled, struggling back onto his feet again and glaring with open loathing at Hermione as she hurried to Draco’s side. “So that’s why you turned traitor--now you’re worse than filth, scum--you and your Mudblood  _ whore--” _

He brandished his wand again, aiming for Hermione.  _ “Avada Kedavra!” _

Draco saw Hermione dive aside, and his fury that Crabbe had aimed to kill wiped all else from his mind. He shot a Stunning Spell at Crabbe, who lurched out of the way, knocking Goyle’s wand out of his hand; it rolled out of sight beneath a mountain of broken furniture and boxes.

“Expelliarmus!” Crabbe’s wand flew out of his hand and disappeared into the bulwark of objects beside him. Left unarmed, Crabbe could only jump out of range of Hermione’s second Stunning Spell.

Ron, appearing suddenly at the end of the aisle, shot a full Body-Bind Curse at Crabbe which narrowly missed. “It’s somewhere here!” Draco yelled at both Ron and Hermione, pointing at the pile of junk into which the old tiara had fallen. “Look for it while I—”

In his peripheral vision, Goyle moved; Draco saw him scrambling towards his wand, which was partially visible under the towering piles of chaos. Without hesitation Draco lunged as well, hitting the floor as he tried to keep the wand out of Goyle’s reach. “Goyle _ \--Greg-- _ Please--I’m sorry!”

Goyle paused, taking a moment to look into Draco’s face. “What?”

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t a good friend to you,” Draco said sincerely. “I tried to be, but I failed. And then I abandoned you, when my eyes were opened and I joined the Order. I’m so sorry. But you know this isn’t right. You know Crabbe is insane, that the Death Eaters, Voldemort--they’re all wrong! Is this what you really want? A world of darkness and carnage every day? Innocent people being tortured and murdered over nothing?”

Goyle blinked a few times, and yes, the boy was a bit slow, there was no denying it--but Draco saw the doubt in his eyes. He had sense in that big head of his. “Crabbe says if I obey him then my family will be spared,” he said finally.

“He’s lying,” Draco said immediately, his tone fierce. “You know that he’s lying. He’s using you, Greg. We have to stop this war. I want to be on the right side.” He held his hand out then, pleading. “Come with me. I can’t promise things can get better immediately. But I can promise I’ll do better as a friend.”

_ “Draco!” _ Hermione suddenly screamed, and the terror in her voice was enough to wipe Draco’s mind blank, scared to his core of seeing what might cause that level of fear in his lover’s voice.

A roaring, billowing noise behind him gave him less than a moment’s warning. Draco twisted, and he saw both Ron and Crabbe running as hard as they could up the aisle toward them. “Like it hot, scum?” Crabbe roared as he ran, laughing maniacally. But he seemed to have no control over what he had done. Flames of abnormal size were pursuing them, licking up the sides of the junk bulwarks, which were crumbling to soot at their touch.

“Oh for fuck’s sake _ \--Aquamenti!” _ Draco thrust his wand towards the fire, but the jet of water that soared from the tip evaporated in the air. And he knew that it was futile--it was FiendFyre, something he had read about but never actually witnessed in person. Their time was up; they had to find the diadem, immediately.

“Go,” Goyle said, taking his wand back and getting to his feet. “Find what you’re looking for. I’ll get Granger and Weasley out of here.”

Scrambling to his feet, Draco bolted into the next aisle of junk, his eyes scanning desperately--he knew roughly where it had fallen, he’d seen the general direction it went--but now the Fiendfyre was edging in, closer and closer, the heat of it so overwhelming that he could barely breathe.

Draco was about ready to just pray to the universe that the Fiendfyre would destroy the damned thing for him when he spotted it, the flames glittering off of the tiara’s discolored metal, and he leapt onto the pile, grabbing the diadem and hooking it over his arm before spinning to try and find a means of escaping the ever-rising inferno.

He could see the fire itself, now; the flames looked as though they were alive, sentient, intent upon killing everything that they touched. The fire was mutating, forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts--flaming serpents, chimaeras, and dragons rose and fell and rose again, and the detritus of centuries on which they were feeding was thrown up in the air into their fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet, before being consumed by the blaze.

_ “No!”  _ Draco didn’t have a chance to realize what was happening before a large meaty arm wrapped around his neck from behind, yanking him back downwards. Scrambling, he jammed his wand backwards, hitting something soft, and his captor howled, releasing him and he slid down the pile a bit before he grabbed a desk, halting his fall.

Looking up, gasping for breath, Draco saw Crabbe standing above him, rubbing his eye and looking feral. “I’ll see you dead!” Crabbe shrieked. “For  _ real, _ this time! One fire’s as good as another to kill you!”

“Crabbe, this is madness!” Draco screamed back over the roaring of the fire that was edging ever closer to them. “You know that this is wrong! It has to stop, we’ll  _ both _ be burned to death!”

At that Crabbe only grinned, the insane glint in his eyes all too familiar; it was something that Draco had only ever seen in Bellatrix’s face before now. “Worth it,” was all Crabbe said, before he lunged.

Draco twisted his body, scrambling to the side to avoid being knocked off the pile, and he quickly started to climb, keeping the diadem hooked around his arm in the meantime, trying to keep it with him. He had to see it destroyed, had to see it die with his own eyes before he could trust it was gone, losing it now wouldn’t do him any good.

Crabbe rushed after him, yelling with rage, and as they made it near the top, his hand grabbed onto Draco’s ankle, giving another harsh yank even as the blond grabbed hold of something long and sturdy--a broomstick perhaps?--in an effort to not let himself be pulled to his death. “Let go of me!” he yelled, trying to shake Crabbe off.

“Over my dead body!” Crabbe yelled back.

There was no way out of this. The FiendFyre was getting even closer, beginning to lick at the bottom of their pile of garbage, and Draco knew that if he didn’t do something, then he would die in this room--and it would be a horrible, slow, burning death. He had sworn to see this through to the end; he saved Goyle, hopefully.

There was no saving Crabbe.

So he kicked hard, and his foot connected with Crabbe’s face. The pain was enough to send him back a few feet, and Draco braced himself, turning to face the boy who had harmed his friends, who had joined the Death Eaters with a feverish delight that alarmed anyone sane, the boy who he had once considered a friend.

“For the record,” he called down, “I’m not sorry for this.”

Pointing his wand at Crabbe, he fired a curse, and the piece of board that Crabbe had been holding onto exploded, sending him flying backwards into the air before he dropped like a stone. The orange and red sentient flames swallowed him up in seconds, his voice lost in the roar.

Ron, Hermione, and Goyle had vanished. Draco looked around, his eyes stinging in the smoke of the Fiendfyre, wondering if he’d actually saved himself at all by getting away from Crabbe’s blood-lust. If he didn’t find a way out--

The stack of junk nearest to him began to crumble and fall under the force of the flames. As it did, a familiar shape became dislodged and started sliding through the air towards him. Draco didn’t know if he could actually trust his eyes, but he was seconds from death and at that moment, choosing to believe that some higher power had sent a goddamn broomstick toppling towards a scared, doomed Seeker did not seem so impossible.

He flung himself from the pile, one hand making sure that the diadem remained secure on his arm while the other reached desperately--and his fingers closed around solid wood.

It was like sliding into a familiar, impossibly comfortable garment that he hadn’t touched in years. Draco clambered aboard the broom and instantly, he began to rise above the flames. Adjusting the tiara up to his shoulder to keep it secure, Draco twisted in midair, his eyes scanning desperately. Through the smoke, he spotted a rectangular patch on the wall and steered the broom at it at once.

Moments later, clean air filled his lungs, and he shot out of the burning room and collided with the wall in the corridor beyond, tumbling right back off of the broomstick.

Draco rolled over at once, struggling to sit up and check his surroundings: the door to the Room of Requirement had vanished, and Ron and Hermione sat panting on the floor beside Goyle, two more broomsticks lying on the floor beside the other two men. Draco raised his eyebrows, taking that in. “You flew out, too--?”

Hermione made a choked, broken sound of relief and flung herself forward, and Draco caught her, not minding one bit when he was slammed onto his back on the stone floor beneath her weight as she kissed him, clearly overwhelmed with gratitude that he’d made it out as well.

“Crabbe?” Goyle said softly, and Draco broke away from Hermione to look over at him; he shook his head, sitting up slowly and turning back to let Hermione press her forehead against his, reveling in knowing that they had both survived. Goyle let out a long, heavy breath, head bowing for a moment; then he shook himself, sitting up and moving to slump against the wall where the Room’s door had been, next to Ron.

There was a brief silence, apart from panting and coughing from all four of them.

Then a number of huge bangs shook the castle, and a great cavalcade of transparent figures galloped past on horses, their heads screaming with bloodlust from under their arms. Draco staggered to his feet when the Headless Hunt had passed, helping Hermione onto her feet as well, and they looked around: the battle was still going on all around him.

He could hear more screams than those of the retreating ghosts, and panic flared within him. “Where’s Ginny?” Draco asked sharply. “She was here. She was supposed to be going back into the Room of Requirement.”

“Blimey, d’you reckon it’ll still work after that fire?” Ron asked in a smoke-hoarse voice, but he too got to his feet, rubbing his chest and looking left and right. Goyle staggered up beside him, his hand flexing on his wand as he waited for them to make a decision, ready to follow. “Shall we split up and look—?”

“No,” Hermione whimpered, getting to her feet too. “Let’s stick together, please. I say we go—wait, Draco, what’s that on your arm?”

“What? Oh—bloody hell. Yes” He pulled the diadem from his wrist and held it up. It was still hot, blackened with soot, but as he looked at it closely he was just able to make out the tiny words etched upon it:  _ “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.” _

A blood-like substance, dark and tarry, seemed to be leaking from the diadem. Suddenly Draco felt the thing vibrate violently; then it broke apart in his hands, and as it did so, he thought he heard the faintest, most distant scream of pain, echoing not from the grounds or the castle, but from the thing that had just fragmented in his fingers.

“It must have been Fiendfyre!” Hermione breathed, her eyes on the broken pieces. “It’s cursed fire—it’s one of the substances that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never, ever have dared use it, it’s so dangerous—how did Crabbe know how to—?”

“Learned it from the Carrows,” Goyle interjected grimly. “Reckon he wasn’t concentrating when they mentioned how to stop it.” He grimaced. “Though to be fair, I don’t know if they ever bloody did. Those classes were...something else.”

Ron huffed; his hair, like Hermione’s, was singed, and his face was blackened. “If he hadn’t tried to kill us all, I’d be almost sorry he was dead,” he remarked crossly.

“But don’t you realize?” Hermione asked, looking between Draco and Ron with wide eyes. “This means, if we can just get the snake—”

But she broke off as yells and shouts and the unmistakable noises of dueling filled the corridor. Draco looked around, and his heart seemed to fail: the Death Eaters had penetrated Hogwarts. Fred and Percy had just backed into view, both of them dueling masked and hooded men.

At once Draco, Goyle, Ron, and Hermione ran forward to help.

Jets of light flew in every direction, and the man dueling Percy backed off, fast; his hood slipped and they saw a high forehead and grey-streaked hair. “Hello, Minister!” Percy shouted, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort. “Did I mention that I’m resigning?”

“You’re joking, Perce!” Fred laughed, as the Death Eater he was battling collapsed under the weight of three separate Stunning Spells. Thicknesse had fallen to the ground with tiny spikes erupting all over him; he seemed to be turning into some form of sea urchin. Fred looked at Percy with glee, moving to stand back-to-back with his older brother as they prepared to continue battling. “You actually  _ are _ joking, Perce....I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were—”

The air exploded.

They had been grouped together--Draco, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Percy, the two Death Eaters at their feet, one Stunned, the other Transfigured--and in that fragment of a moment, when danger seemed temporarily at bay, the world was rent apart.

Draco felt himself flying through the air, and all he could do was hold as tightly as possible to that thin stick of wood that was his one and only weapon, and try to shield his head with his arms. He heard the screams and yells of his companions without a hope of knowing what had happened to them—and then the world resolved itself into pain and semidarkness. He was half-buried in the wreckage of a corridor that had been subjected to a terrible attack.

Cold air told him that the side of the castle had been blown away, and hot stickiness on his cheek told him that some part of his head was now bleeding copiously.

Then he heard a terrible cry that pulled at his insides, that expressed agony of a kind that neither flame nor curse could cause.

Draco dragged himself back up onto his feet, swaying, more frightened than he had been that day...more frightened, perhaps, than he had been in his life. Hermione was struggling to her feet as well, and she stumbled towards him; their hands connected, clutching each other for support as they staggered towards where the three redheaded men were grouped on the ground right by the wall had blasted apart.

“No—no _ —no!” _ someone was crying. “No! Percy! No!”

And Fred was shaking his brother, and Ron was kneeling beside them; Percy’s eyes stared up, unseeing, his glasses broken, the ghost of a final smile etched upon his face.


	44. Savage to the Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How many more lay dead that he did not yet know about, because he had kept trying to fight back against a seemingly insurmountable enemy?”

The world had ended.

The world had ended--so why had the battle not ceased, the castle not fallen silent in horror, and every combatant laid down their arms? Draco’s mind was in free fall, spinning out of control, unable to grasp the impossibility, because Percy Weasley could not be dead. The evidence of all his senses must be lying—the Weasley family could not break, they couldn’t lose any of them. It was not possible--he never even got to apologize for all the grief he had caused Percy when the man was a Prefect here just a few short years ago--

A body fell past the hole blown into the side of the school, and curses flew in at them from the darkness, hitting the wall behind their heads and forcing Draco’s mind back into the present.

“Get down!” Draco shouted, as more curses flew through the night. He and Ron both grabbed Hermione and pulled her to the floor, Goyle ducking beneath an unbroken window, and Fred flung himself across Percy’s body, shielding it from further harm. Draco pushed himself up a bit, shouting, “Fred--come on, we’ve got to move!” But Fred just shook his head.

_ “Fred!”  _ Draco saw tear tracks streaking the grime coating Ron’s face as he seized his elder brother’s shoulders and pulled, but Fred would not budge. “Fred, you can’t do anything for him! We’re going to—”

Hermione screamed in fear, and Draco, twisting back towards her, did not need to ask why.

A monstrous spider the size of a small car was trying to climb through the gaping hole in the wall; Aragog’s descendants had seemingly joined the fight. Ron and Draco shouted together; their spells collided and the monster was blown backwards, its legs jerking horribly, and it vanished into the darkness.

“It brought friends!” Goyle called to the others, glancing over the edge of the castle through the hole in the wall the curses had blasted. More giant spiders were climbing the side of the building, liberated from the Forbidden Forest, into which the Death Eaters must also have penetrated. Draco fired Stunning Spells down upon them, knocking the lead monster into its fellows, so that they rolled back down the building and out of sight.

More curses came soaring over Draco’s head, so close he felt the force of them blowing through his hair. “Let’s move,  _ now!” _

Pushing Hermione ahead of him with Ron and Goyle, Draco stooped to seize Percy’s body under the armpits. Fred, realizing what Draco was trying to do, stopped clinging to the body and leapt to help him; together, crouching low to avoid the curses flying at them from the grounds, they hauled Percy safely out of the way.

“Here,” Draco gasped, and they placed him in a niche where a suit of armor had stood earlier. He could not bear to look at Percy’s face a second longer than he had to; and after making sure that the body was well hidden, he took off after Ron and Hermione.

At the end of the corridor, which was now full of dust and falling masonry, glass long gone from the windows, he saw countless people running backward and forward, whether friends or foes he could not tell. Rounding the corner, Fred let out a bull-like roar: “ _ Rookwood _ !” and sprinted off in the direction of a tall man, who was pursuing a couple of students.

“Draco, we’re here!” Hermione screamed; she had dragged Ron out of the castle toward the courtyard. They seemed to be wrestling together, and for one mad second Draco thought, incomprehensibly, that they were kissing. Then he realized that Hermione was trying to restrain Ron, to stop him running after Fred. “Listen to me _ —listen to me, Ron!” _

“I wanna help—I wanna kill Death Eaters—” His face was contorted, smeared with dust and smoke, and he was shaking with rage and grief.

“Ron, we’re the only ones who can end it! Please—Ron—we need the snake, we’ve got to kill the snake!” Hermione was sobbing. Draco thought he knew how Ron felt: pursuing another Horcrux could not bring the satisfaction of revenge. He too wanted to fight, to punish them, the people who had killed Percy, and then he wanted to find the other Weasleys and cling to them, to keep them all safe.

“We will fight!” Hermione was still saying. “We’ll have to, to reach the snake! But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re supposed to be d-doing! We’re the only ones who can end it!” She was crying openly, and she wiped her face on her torn and singed sleeve as she spoke; but she took great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping a tight hold on Ron, she turned to Draco.

“We need to find out where Riddle is, because he’ll have the snake with him, won’t he? W-we need to--!”

Draco nodded, turning on his heel and scanning the ruins of Hogwarts’ front entrance hall and the debris-strewn courtyard. A significant portion of the stone walls that lined the courtyard had been completely blown away, opening the space up and leaving the sloping lawn far more visible than Draco had ever seen it. He continued revolving on the spot, looking around--he had no idea what for, but  _ something _ would surely stand out to him--

Through the demolished structure that had once been a gate in the wall--it used to open towards the Forbidden Forest and, at a slight angle, towards Hagrid’s hut--Draco spotted a single, lone black-clad figure hurrying away from the castle and the chaos of the battle. The only thing in that direction that Draco could think of was the Whomping Willow.

He squinted, staring at the figure before they disappeared--and Draco’s heart hurt lurched when he realized that he did recognize it. He’d inherited the man’s hair, after all, and his lean, willowy bone structure, and he’d grown up idolizing everything about him.

Draco twisted back towards Ron and Hermione, wincing as his ears were assaulted with more screeches and cries, the battle continuing to spread throughout the castle and the ground all around them. “Come on,” he gasped. “I know--I think I know where to find him. He’s in the Shrieking Shack, I guarantee it. The snake’s going to be there with him--let’s go.“

“How do you know?” Ron asked, while at the same time Hermione spluttered, “Voldemort’s sitting in the Shrieking Shack? He’s not—he’s not even  _ fighting?” _

“He doesn’t think he needs to fight,” Draco told her. “I think he knows that in the end, I’ll be coming to him.” To Ron, he added, “And because I just saw my father heading for the Whomping Willow. If Riddle’s hiding in the Shrieking Shack, he’d have told Severus--so Severus could’ve told Lucius how to reach him, if Riddle summoned him. Guys, we have to  _ go.” _

“Right,” Ron said, squaring his shoulders and giving Draco possibly the most authoritative look that he’d ever seen on the normally receptive Gryffindor’s face. “So then  _ you _ can’t go, that’s what he wants, what he’s expecting. You stay here and look after Hermione, and I’ll go and get it—”

Draco cut across Ron, not wasting time hearing that nonsense. “No, you two stay here, I’ll go under the Cloak and I’ll be back as soon as I—”

“Not a  _ chance,”  _ Hermione snapped. “It makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Ron interrupted her sharply.

Before Hermione could get farther than “Ron, I’m just as capable—” the castle’s front doors--at least the one that was still hanging by one hinge, while the other had been blasted away--were flung open, and two masked Death Eaters emerged, drawing up short at the sight of the three teenagers. One of them spluttered, eyes widening behind the mask when they recognized Draco; but even before their wands were fully raised, Hermione had shouted, “Glisseo!”

The stone beneath their own feet flattened into a smooth plane, and she, Draco, and Ron slid down it, unable to control their speed but moving fast enough that the Death Eaters’ Stunning Spells flew over their heads.

They hit the courtyard cobblestones at the bottom, and spun a little, staggering away from the front steps; Hermione twisted in place with impressive agility, firing off two swift Stunning Spells that immediately dropped the pursuing Death Eaters where they stood.

“Get back!” Ron shouted out, and he, Draco, and Hermione flung themselves to one side just in time as a herd of galloping desks thundered past, shepherded by a sprinting Professor McGonagall. She appeared not to notice them: her hair had come down and there was a gash on her cheek. As she turned the corner, they heard her scream,  _ “Charge!” _

The trio resumed running across the courtyard for the far side, where the destroyed gate had stood--then found themselves blocked by a string of active duelers. Death Eaters, both masked and unmasked, dueled students and teachers; Draco saw that Dean had gained himself a wand, and he was face-to-face with Dolohov, Parvati opposite Travers.

Draco, Ron, and Hermione raised their wands at once, ready to assist; but the duelers were weaving and darting around so much that there was a strong likelihood of hurting one of their own if they started casting curses.

As they stood braced, looking for the opportunity to act, there came a great “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!”--and, looking up, Draco saw Peeves zooming over them, dropping Snargaluff pods down onto the Death Eaters, whose heads were suddenly engulfed in wriggling green tubers like fat worms.

Dean made the most of this momentary distraction, knocking Dolohov out with a Stunning Spell; Travers attempted to retaliate and Parvati shot a Body-Bind Curse at him. There were more duelers across the courtyard, around the well and in the covered passageways that lined the yard, masked and cloaked figures in every direction that Draco looked. Yaxley, back near the front doors, was in combat with Flitwick; a masked Death Eater was dueling Kingsley right beside them.

Students ran in every direction, some carrying or dragging injured friends. Draco directed a Stunning Spell toward a masked Death Eater. It missed but nearly hit Neville, who had emerged from nowhere brandishing armfuls of Venomous Tentacula, which looped itself happily around the nearest Death Eater and began reeling him in.

The sound of glass shattering rang out behind them, and Draco turned around quickly; through the now-fully-demolished front doors, the emeralds of the Slytherin hourglass that recorded House points were spilling across the ground, so that people slipped and staggered as they tried to outrun the wave of gemstones.

Two bodies suddenly fell from a balcony overhead as they reached the ground, drawing Draco up short as he tried to determine if they were friend or foe, and--if the former--if they were still alive.

Then an enormous grey blur sped four-legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the fallen. For a moment, Draco thought somehow that it was an animal, that some unknown nightmare from deep in the heart of the Forest had emerged and was viciously relishing the freedom to feast amidst the battle, with no regard for who was a Death Eater and who wasn’t.

_ “No!”  _ Hermione gasped, waving her wand desperately, and Fenrir Greyback was thrown backward from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown. He hit the marble banisters and struggled to return to his feet, twisting around on all fours to find who had attacked him.

His eyes landed onto the frozen trio, and for one brief moment he looked stunned--not only to see them here at all, but to see Draco, specifically. He saw the way the wolf’s eyes tracked his face, saw the recognition gleam in his cruel eyes; and a slow grin stretched over the werewolf’s face, revealing his yellowed canines now stained with blood.

“Well hello again, little piggy,” he snarled, beginning to prowl forward.

Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t think of a spell that could save himself, couldn’t do anything to try and protect his friends, but in the end it didn’t matter. Goyle came charging up behind them, rugby tackling the werewolf into a nearby pillar with a loud, almost sickening thud. “Greg!”

“Go!” Goyle yelled, drawing his wand and firing a blasting spell to cause some of the rocks to fall onto Greyback’s head, sending him crumpling to the floor. “Whatever you have to do Draco, just go! I got it handled here.”

Draco staggered backwards, finding Ron and Hermione’s hands grasping at him to steady him, and he nodded, only able to stare gratefully at his friend. Then he twisted around, regaining his senses and resuming their frantic run. A figure stumbled into their path ahead, cloaked but not masked--Draco wasn’t sure which Death Eater it was, though, he felt as if he no longer knew how many people Riddle had at his command--

With a bright white flash and a crack, a crystal ball fell on top of his head, and the man crumpled to the ground and did not move. “I have more!” Professor Trelawney’s voice shrieked from over the edge of one of the balconies. “More for anyone who wants them! Here—” And with a movement like a tennis serve, she heaved another enormous crystal sphere from her bag, waved her wand through the air, and caused the ball to speed across the hall and smash through a window.

At the same moment, the heavy wooden front gates that enclosed the castle’s front courtyard burst open, and more of the gigantic spiders began forcing their way towards the entrance hall. Screams of terror rent the air; the fighters scattered, Death Eaters and Hogwartians alike, and red and green jets of light flew into the midst of the oncoming monsters, which shuddered and reared, more terrifying than ever.

“How do we get out of here?” Ron yelled over all the screaming, but before either Draco or Hermione could answer they were bowled aside: Hagrid had come thundering down the stairs, brandishing his flowery pink umbrella.

“Don’t hurt ’em, don’t hurt ’em!” he was yelling, and to Draco’s horror, he realized that Hagrid was running to the defense of the bloody spiders.

_ “Hagrid, no!”  _ Draco momentarily forgot their immediate task; he sprinted forward at once, running bent double to avoid the curses illuminating the whole hall. “Hagrid,  _ come back!”  _ But he was not even halfway to Hagrid when he saw that he was already too late: Hagrid vanished amongst the spiders, and with a great scurrying, a foul swarming movement, they retreated under the onslaught of spells, Hagrid buried in their midst. “Hagrid!”

Draco heard someone calling his own name; whether friend or enemy, he did not care. He sprinted without hesitation across the courtyard, through the ruined gates and into the dark grounds. Ahead, the spiders were swarming away with their prey, and he could see nothing of Hagrid at all. He thought that he could make out an enormous arm waving from the midst of the spider swarm, but as he made chase after them, his way was impeded by a monumental foot, which swung down out of the darkness and made the ground on which he stood shudder.

He looked up, and yelped; a giant stood before him, twenty feet high, its head hidden in shadow, nothing but its treelike, hairy shins illuminated by light spilling out from the castle doors and windows. With one brutal, fluid movement, it smashed a massive fist through an upper window, and glass rained down upon the ground, forcing Draco to stagger back under the shelter of the nearest walkway.

“Oh my—!” Hermione cried, as she and Ron caught up with Draco and gazed upward at the giant now trying to seize people through the window above.

“Don’t!” Ron yelled, grabbing Hermione’s hand as she raised her wand. “Stun him and he’ll crush half the castle—”

_ “Hagger?”  _ Grawp came lurching around the corner of the castle; only now did Draco see that Grawp was, indeed, an undersized giant. The gargantuan monster trying to crush people on the upper floors looked around, and let out a roar when he saw Grawp. The stone steps trembled as he stomped toward his smaller kin, and Grawp’s lopsided mouth fell open, showing yellow, half-brick-sized teeth; and then they launched themselves at each other with the savagery of lions.

_ “Run!”  _ Draco cried; the night was filled with horrific yells and blows as the two giants wrestled, and he seized Hermione’s hand and tore off into the grounds with Ron bringing up the rear. Draco had not lost hope of finding and saving Hagrid; he ran so fast that they were halfway toward the forest before they were brought up short again.

The air around them had frozen: Draco’s breath caught and solidified in his chest. Shapes moved out in the darkness, swirling figures of concentrated blackness, moving in a great wave toward the castle, their faces hooded and their breath rattling....Ron and Hermione closed in tightly on either side of him as the sounds of fighting behind them grew suddenly muted, deadened, because silence that only dementors could cause was falling thickly over the night.

Panic welled up inside of Draco; he suddenly felt unbearably as if they had already lost. They were doomed; what was the point of even trying to keep going? Percy Weasley was dead, as well as God-knew-who-else, and Hagrid was surely dying or already dead.

“Come on, Draco!” Hermione’s voice drifted to him as if from a very long way away. “Patronuses, love, come on!”

He struggled to raise his wand, but a dull hopelessness was spreading through him. How many more lay dead that he did not yet know about, because he had kept trying to fight back against a seemingly insurmountable enemy? Draco felt as though his soul had already half left his body....

“Draco,  _ come on!” _ Hermione screamed, her desperation increasingly audible.

A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, scenting their way closer to Draco’s despair, which was like the promise of a feast for them....distantly he saw Ron’s silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and then expire; he saw Hermione’s otter twist in midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his hand, and now he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling...

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox all soared past their heads: the dementors fell back before the creatures’ approach. Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses, and in the light of their glow, Draco saw the familiar faces of Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

“That’s right,” Luna told him encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. “That’s right, Draco...come on, think of something happy....”

“Something happy?” he echoed, his voice cracking. “Something...”

“We’re all still here,” she whispered, reaching out to catch hold of his hand. “We’re still fighting, Draco. We’re all together, we can do it. Come on, now....” There was a silver spark, then a wavering light--and then, with the greatest effort that it had ever cost him, the phoenix burst from the end of Draco’s wand.

It soared forward to join the others, and now the dementors scattered in earnest, and immediately the night felt mild and warm again; but the sounds of the surrounding battle were once more loud in his ears. “Can’t thank you enough,” Ron said shakily, turning to Luna, Ernie, and Seamus. “You just saved—”

With a roar and an earth-quaking tremor, another giant came lurching out of the darkness from the direction of the forest, bran-dishing a club taller than any of them.

“Fuck _ \--run!”  _ Draco shouted yet again, and the others did not need to be told twice: they all scattered, and not a second too soon, for the next moment the creature’s vast foot had landed exactly where they had been standing.

Draco looked round as he stumbled over the uneven earth: Ron and Hermione were following him, but the other three had vanished back into the battle. “Let’s get out of range!” Ron yelled to him, as the giant swung its club again and its bellows echoed through the night, across the grounds where bursts of red and green light continued to illuminate the darkness.

“The Whomping Willow,” Draco confirmed, finally remembering what they actually had to do out here, in the dark and far from the ongoing battle. “Let’s go!”

Somehow he walled it all up in his mind, crammed it into a small space into which he could not look now--thoughts of Percy and of Hagrid, and his terror for all the people he loved, scattered in and outside the castle, all had to wait, because they had to run, had to reach the snake and Riddle, because that was, as Hermione said, the only way to end it. It was the only way that Draco could do right by any of them, and make this nightmare end.

He kept on sprinting, half-believing that he could outdistance death itself, ignoring the jets of light flying in the darkness all around him, and the sound of the lake crashing like the sea, and the creaking of the Forbidden Forest even though the night was windless; through grounds that seemed themselves to have risen in rebellion, he ran faster than he had ever moved in his life.

At last, he saw the great tree, the Willow that protected the secret at its roots with whiplike, slashing branches. Panting and gasping, Draco slowed down, skirting the Willow’s swiping branches, peering through the darkness toward its thick trunk, trying to see a way past the whipping branches, a weakness he could exploit. Ron and Hermione caught up to him, Hermione so out of breath she could not speak.

”I know you told me,” he panted at the other two. “Can’t remember--how do we stop it flailing? How do we get in?”

“Oh—right—yeah—” Ron looked around, then directed his wand at a twig on the ground and said, “Wingardium Leviosa!” The twig flew up from the ground, spun through the air as if caught by a gust of wind, then zoomed directly at the trunk through the Willow’s ominously swaying branches. It jabbed at a place near the roots, and at once, the writhing tree became still.

“Perfect!” Hermione panted, nodding at Ron. “Let’s--”

“Wait.” For one teetering second, while the crashes and booms of the battle filled the air, Draco hesitated. Riddle was right at the other end of this passageway...he had the Elder Wand, which did not belong to him but was still undeniably powerful. And at that moment, at least, he had Draco’s own father with him. Perhaps Severus was in there, as well.

Was he leading Ron and Hermione into a trap? But again, reality seemed to close upon him, cruel and plain: the only way forward was to kill the snake, and the snake was where Voldemort was, and Voldemort was at the end of this tunnel.

Sucking in a hard breath, Draco made himself move; he wriggled into the earthy passage hidden in the tree’s roots, hearing Ron and Hermione follow close behind him. It was a much tighter squeeze than he had imagined, somehow, from their stories of sneaking through here. There was nothing for it but to crawl. Draco went on, his wand illuminated, expecting at any moment to meet barriers--but none came. They moved in silence, Draco gaze fixed upon the swinging beam of light from his wand.

At last the tunnel began to slope upward, and eventually Draco saw a sliver of light ahead. Hermione tugged at his ankle. “The Cloak!” she whispered. “Put the Cloak on!"

Draco groped behind him and she forced the bundle of slippery cloth into his free hand. With difficulty he dragged it over himself, murmured, “Nox” to extinguish his wandlight, and then continued on his hands and knees, as silently as possible, all his senses straining, expecting every second to be discovered.

And then he did hear sound ahead; voices, coming from the room directly ahead of them, only slightly muffled by the fact that the opening at the end of the tunnel appeared to be blocked up by what looked like an old crate.

Hardly daring to breathe, Draco edged right up to the opening and peered through a tiny gap left between crate and wall. The room beyond was dimly lit; but at once he could see Nagini, swirling and coiling like a serpent underwater, safe inside of an enchanted, starry sphere, which floated unsupported in midair. Beneath her gilded cage, Draco could see the edge of a table, and a long-fingered white hand toying with a wand.

“My Lord,” a voice whimpered, desperate and cracked; Draco’s stomach turned over as he let his eyes slide across the room. There was Lucius, his father sitting in the darkest corner, ragged and still bearing the marks of the punishment he had received after Draco, Ron, and Hermione had escaped the Manor. One of his eyes remained closed and puffy.

“My Lord...please...my wife...”

“If your wife is dead, Lucius, then it is not my fault. I did advise that she remain at your home while we came to eliminate this Dragon problem.” Riddle’s voice was cold and derisive. ”She has been...remarkably closed-off in regards to her loyalty to my cause, this past year. Perhaps the loss of your son has shaken her faith.”

“No—never,” Lucius whispered, trembling; Draco tore his eyes from his father, unable to stand seeing him in this state. And if his reply was true--if he grieved his son, believing him dead, and yet was not swayed to see that he should be choosing Narcissa, and their safety, over Riddle and his madness, then Draco did not know if he’d have anything to say to his father, anyway.

“You must hope not. And if she  _ is _ here, engaged in this battle, then Narcissa is only redeeming herself for her lackluster support in recent months. You should not feel fear for that.”

“Aren’t—aren’t you afraid, my Lord, that--that the Dragon might die at another hand but yours?” Lucius asked, his voice quaking. “Wouldn’t it be...forgive me...more prudent to call off this battle, enter the castle, and seek him y-yourself?”

“Do not pretend, Lucius. You wish the battle to cease so that you can reassure yourself that your wife is not out there--and that is because you know that if she is actively amongst those fighting, it may be that she now has a death wish in the wake of Draco’s death.” Riddle did not sound as if he cared that his supporters’ child had died supposedly in his service, or that Narcissa might be willing to hurl herself into a suicide-mission of battling out of grief.

Draco’s heart nearly stopped at the thought. With every fiber of his being, he prayed that his mother was not out there--that she had remained safely behind, protected within the dark walls of Malfoy Manor.

Riddle continued, colder still. “And I do not need to seek this  _ Dragon.  _ Before the night is out, he will come to find me.” Riddle dropped his gaze once more to the wand in his fingers. “He has chosen to stand as the new figurehead of this pointless resistance from the Mudbloods and blood traitors and their like....he will choose to face me, in a doomed attempt to complete his foolish mission. Now...go and fetch Snape.”

“Snape, m-my Lord?”

“Snape. Now. I need him. There is a—service—that I require from him. Go.”

Frightened, stumbling a little in the gloom, Lucius left the room. Riddle continued to stand there, twirling the wand between his fingers, staring at it. “It is the only way, Nagini,” he whispered, and he looked up at the great thick snake, still twisting gracefully within the enchanted, protected space he had made for her.

Draco remained perfectly still, all but holding his breath. So Severus hadn’t been in the room at this time--but he was coming, now. Behind him, Ron and Hermione shifted soundlessly, trying to get comfortable to avoid risking any noises as they waited for his cue for what to do next.

Eventually a door creaked, and then Snape spoke, and Draco’s heart lurched with relief at hearing--and then seeing--his godfather. The older wizard came into view, looking haggard, a single cut across one cheek, no longer bleeding.

“...my Lord, you summoned me? I believe that we are nearly finished; their resistance is crumbling—”

“—and it is doing so without your help,” Riddle replied softly. “Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there...almost.”

Severus bowed his head respectfully. “Yes, my Lord. How else, then, can I be of service to you, if not to fight in your name?”

He moved past the gap, and Draco drew back a little, keeping his eyes fixed upon Nagini, wondering whether there was any spell that might penetrate the protection surrounding her, but he could not think of anything. One failed attempt, and he would give away his position.

Riddle stood up. Draco could see him fully now; the red eyes, the flattened, serpentine face, the pallor of him gleaming slightly in the semidarkness. “I have a problem, Severus,” Riddle said quietly. He raised the Elder Wand, holding it as delicately and precisely as a conductor’s baton. “Why doesn’t it work for me, Severus?”

In the silence, Draco imagined he could hear the snake hissing slightly as it coiled and uncoiled—or was it Voldemort’s sibilant sigh lingering on the air? If she was speaking, then Draco could not make out the words, either due to distance or because her odd little cage was somehow sound-proofed.

“My—my Lord?” Severus asked blankly. “I do not understand. You—you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand.”

“No,” Riddle corrected. “I have performed my usual magic _. I  _ am extraordinary, but this wand...no. It has not revealed the wonders that I was promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago, as a child.” Riddle’s tone was musing, calm, but Draco's arm had begun to throb and pulse. Pressure was building, and he could feel that controlled sense of fury building inside Riddle. He was preparing to snap.

“No difference,” Riddle said again, even more quietly. Severus did not speak. Draco could not see his face, so he did not know if his godfather sensed danger, if he was trying to find the right words to reassure his master.

Riddle started to move around the room: Draco lost sight of him for a few seconds at a time as he prowled, speaking in that same measured voice. “I have thought long and hard, Severus....do you know why I have called you back from the battle?”

And for a moment Draco saw Severus’ profile: his eyes were fixed upon the coiling snake in her enchanted cage. “No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find this Dragon for you.”

“You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands as I do. This man, this Dragon--He does not need finding. He will come to me. I know his motivation, you see, his one great weakness; it is the very same as what has created him to begin with.” Riddle’s voice turned mocking. “The Dragon exists because he wished to finish what Harry Potter’s impossible survival began, sixteen years ago...he intended to become what Potter  _ was.  _ And he will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is to shield him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come to me.”

“But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by one other than yourself—”

“My instructions to my Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture the Dragon. Kill his friends, if possible—the more, the better, especially those who were once closest to Potter—but do not kill  _ him.” _

He drew a breath, long and measured. “But now it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter, and not of his successor. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable."

“My Lord knows I seek only to serve him.”

“My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the man,” Riddle continued, as if Severus hadn’t spoken.

“My Lord, there can be no question, surely— ?”

“—but there is a question, Severus. There is.” Riddle halted, and Draco could see him plainly again as he slid the Elder Wand through his white fingers, staring at Severus. “Why did any wand that I ever used fail when directed at Harry Potter?”

“I—I cannot answer that, my Lord.”

“Can’t you?” Riddle’s voice twisted with derision. “My wand of yew did everything that I ever asked of it, Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. It failed me when he was merely an infant, and I am fortunate that my skill prevented it from failing me when I returned to my body, and destroyed Potter at last, three years ago.”

“I—I have no explanation, my Lord.” Severus was not looking at Riddle now. His dark eyes were still fixed upon the coiling serpent in its protective sphere.

“I sought a new wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.”

At that, Severus did look directly at Riddle, and his face was like a death mask. It was marble white and so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that anyone lived behind the blank eyes. “My Lord—I do not understa—”

“All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here,” Riddle cut him off, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “...wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner...and I think, at last, I have the answer.”

Severus did not speak. Draco held his breath, staring from the writhing snake, to her cold-eyed master, to his absolutely unmoving godfather.

“Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.”

“My Lord—”

“The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot ever truly be mine.”

“My Lord!” Severus protested, raising his wand. Draco clasped a hand to his mouth, now seeing what was coming-- and he could not prevent it. Revealing himself would not save Severus; it would surely only result in his godfather, or Ron or Hermione, perishing anyway. Draco could do nothing but watch in horror as Riddle acted on his very mistaken belief of who truly commanded the wand in his hand.

“It cannot be any other way,” Riddle concluded. “I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master true invincibility at last. And I will defeat the Dragon.”

Riddle swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It did nothing to Severus, who for a split second seemed to think he had been reprieved; but then Riddle’s intention became clear. The snake’s cage was rolling through the air, and before Severus could do anything more than shout, it had encased him, head and shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue. “ _ Kill.” _

There was a terrible scream. Draco jerked violently in the tight, dark space of the tunnel, tears flooding his eyes as he saw Snape’s face losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs pierced his neck, as he failed to push the enchanted cage off himself, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor.

“I regret it,” Riddle declared coldly. He turned away; there was no sadness in him, no remorse. It was time to leave this shack and take charge, with a wand that he now believed would do his full bidding.

He pointed it again at the starry cage holding the snake, which drifted upward, off of Severus; he fell sideways onto the floor, blood gushing from the wounds in his neck. Riddle swept from the room without a backward glance, and the great serpent floated after him in its huge protective sphere.

Back in the tunnel Draco blinked his eyes several times, trying to clear his vision of tears. He had drawn blood biting down on his knuckles in the effort not to shout out in pain and protest. Looking again through the tiny crack between crate and wall, he shuddered as he saw a foot in a black boot trembling on the floor.

“Draco?” Hermione breathed behind him; but he had already pointed his wand at the crate blocking his view. It lifted an inch into the air and drifted sideways silently. As quietly as he could, he pulled himself up into the room.

On unsteady feet, Draco approached the dying man. He did not know what he felt, or what to say or even think, as he took in Severus’ white face, and the fingers trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck.

Draco pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and looked down upon his godfather, whose widening black eyes found Draco as he tried to speak. At once Draco bent over him, and Severus seized the front of his jacket and pulled him close. A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from Severus’ throat.

Hermione was suddenly kneeling at Draco’s side. Severus’ eyes slid to her, and there was no sound besides the older man’s dying breaths; Hermione worked silently, her hands shaking as she produced a swatch of gauze and some dittany. Soaking the material, she began pressing it to the terrible bites in his throat.

It would do nothing to save his life, and that was clear to all of them. But it granted him a few moments more, and Severus blinked rapidly, looking at Hermione with raw gratitude. She swallowed hard, nodding at him and shifting back a few inches, giving him and Draco some space.

Shaking violently, Severus moved one hand slowly upward. Draco did not even register or care about the blood soaking his skin as his godfather put two fingers to Draco’s own temple, and then he managed a wheezy, breathless murmur.  _ “Legilimens...” _

Even if Draco had been braced and ready to shield his mind from another’s efforts, he would never have done it against Severus. This was not a lesson in his dungeon office; this was needed, this was to show him something important. Draco closed his eyes, letting his mind spiral away from his body through time and space, following Severus into his own thoughts and memories. This was Severus’ tour to guide.

When Draco’s head stopped spinning, he straightened up and looked around; he was in a nearly-deserted playground. A single huge chimney dominated the distant skyline.

_ Two very small girls were swinging backward and forward, and a skinny boy was watching them from behind a clump of bushes. His black hair was overlong and his clothes were so mismatched that it looked deliberate: too short jeans, a shabby, overlarge coat that might have belonged to a grown man, and an odd smock-like shirt. Draco moved closer, staring at him curiously; Severus looked no more than nine or ten years old, sallow, small, stringy. There was undisguised greed in his thin face as he watched the younger of the two girls swinging higher and higher than her sister. _

_ “Lily, don’t do it!” shrieked the elder of the two. But the girl had let go of the swing at the very height of its arc and flown into the air--quite literally flown--with a great shout of laughter, and instead of crumpling on the playground asphalt, she soared like a trapeze artist through the air, staying up far too long, landing far too lightly. “Mummy told you not to!” Her sister stopped her swing by dragging the heels of her sandals on the ground, making a crunching, grinding sound, then leapt up, hands on hips. “Mummy said you weren’t allowed, Lily!” _

_ “But I’m fine,” Lily promised, still giggling. “Petunia, look at this. Watch what I can do.” Petunia glanced around; the playground was deserted apart from themselves and, though the girls did not know it, Severus. Lily had picked up a fallen flower from the bush behind which Snape lurked. Petunia advanced, evidently torn between curiosity and disapproval. Lily waited until Petunia was near enough to have a clear view, then held out her palm. The flower sat there, opening and closing its petals, like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster. _

_ “Stop it!” Petunia shrieked. _

_ “It’s not hurting you,” Lily pointed out, but all the same she closed her hand on the blossom and threw it back to the ground. _

_ “It’s not right,” Petunia insisted, but her eyes had followed the flower’s flight to the ground and lingered upon it. “How do you do it?” she added, and there was definite longing in her voice. _

_ “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Severus could no longer contain himself, but had jumped out from behind the bushes. Petunia shrieked and ran backward toward the swings, but Lily, though clearly startled, remained where she was. Severus seemed to regret his appearance. A dull flush of color mounted the sallow cheeks as he looked at Lily. _

_ “What’s obvious?” Lily asked. _

_ Severus had an air of nervous excitement. With a glance at the distant Petunia, now hovering beside the swings, he lowered his voice and said, “I know what you are.” _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “You’re...you’re a witch,” Severus whispered. _

_ She looked affronted. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to somebody!” She turned, nose in the air, and marched off toward her sister. _

_ “No!” Severus gasped. His cheeks were very flushed now, and Draco wondered why he did not take off the ridiculously large coat, unless it was because he did not want to reveal the smock beneath it. He rushed after the girls, who considered him, united in disapproval, both holding on to one of the swing poles as though it was the safe place in tag. “You are,” Severus told Lily. “You are a witch. I’ve been watching you for a while. But there’s nothing wrong with that. My mum’s one, and I’m a wizard.” _

_ Petunia’s laugh was like cold water. “Wizard!” she shrieked, her courage returned now that she had recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance. “I know who you are. You’re that Snape boy! They live down Spinner’s End by the river,” she told Lily, and it was evident from her tone that she considered the address a poor recommendation. “Why have you been spying on us?” _

_ “Haven’t been spying,” Severus snapped, hot and uncomfortable and dirty-haired in the bright sunlight. “Wouldn’t spy on you, anyway,” he added spitefully, “You’re just a Muggle.” _

_ Though Petunia evidently did not understand the word, she could hardly mistake the tone. “Lily, come on, we’re leaving!” she said shrilly. Lily obeyed her sister at once, glaring back at Severus as she left. He stood watching them as they marched through the playground gate, and Draco recognized Snape’s bitter disappointment; he understood that Severus had been planning this moment for a while, and that it had all gone wrong. _

The scene swirled around him, and then reformed. Draco was now in a small thicket of trees. He could see a sunlit river glittering through their trunks, and the shadows cast by the trees made a basin of cool green shade.

_ Lily and Severus sat facing each other, cross-legged on the ground. “...and the Ministry can punish you if you do magic outside school, you get letters.” _

_ “But I have done magic outside school!” _

_ “We’re all right. We haven’t got wands yet. They let you off when you’re a kid and you can’t help it. But once you’re eleven,” he nodded importantly, “And they start training you, then you’ve got to go careful.” _

_ There was a little silence. Lily had picked up a fallen twig and twirled it in the air, and Draco knew that she was imagining sparks trailing from it. Then she dropped the twig, leaned in toward the boy, and said, “It is real, isn’t it? It’s not a joke? Petunia says you’re lying to me. Petunia says there isn’t a Hogwarts. It is real, isn’t it?” _

_ “It’s real for us,” Severus confirmed. “Not for her. But we’ll get the letter, you and me.” _

_ “Really?” Lily whispered, wide-eyed. _

_“Definitely,” Severus_ _said, and even with his poorly cut hair and his odd clothes, he struck an oddly impressive figure sprawled in front of her, brimful of confidence in his destiny._

_ “And will it really come by owl?” Lily asked eagerly. _

_ “Normally,” Severus replied. “But you’re Muggleborn, so someone from the school will have to come and explain to your parents.” _

_ “Does it make a difference, being Muggleborn?” _

_ Severus hesitated. His black eyes, eager in the greenish gloom, moved over the pale face, the dark red hair. “No,” he said at last. Watching him, Draco inhaled deeply, amazed at this side of his godfather from so very long ago. “It doesn’t make any difference.”  _

_ “Good,” Lily sighed, relaxing. It was clear that she had been worrying. _

_ “You’ve got loads of magic,” Severus assured her. “I saw that. All the time I was watching you...” His voice trailed away; she was not listening, but had stretched out on the leafy ground and was looking up at the canopy of leaves overhead. He watched her as greedily as he had watched her in the playground. _

_ “How are things at your house?” Lily asked suddenly. _

_ A little crease appeared between his eyes. “Fine,” he said. _

_ “They’re not arguing anymore?” _

_ “Oh yes, they’re arguing,” Severus said dismissively. He picked up a fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart, apparently unaware of what he was doing. “But it won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.” _

_ “Doesn’t your dad like magic?” _

_ “He doesn’t like anything, much,” Severus replied. _

_ “Severus?” A little smile twisted Severus’ mouth when she said his name. “Yeah?” _

_ “Tell me about the dementors again.” _

_ “What d’you want to know about them for?” _

_ “If I use magic outside school—” _

_ “They wouldn’t give you to the dementors for that! Dementors are for people who do really bad stuff. They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban. You’re not going to end up in Azkaban, you’re too—” And then he turned red again, and began shredding more leaves, not finishing his sentence. _

The scene shifted again.

_ Severus was hurrying along the corridor of the Hogwarts Express as it clattered through the countryside. He had already changed into his school robes, had perhaps taken the first opportunity to take off his dreadful Muggle clothes. At last he stopped, outside a compartment in which a group of rowdy boys were talking. Hunched in a corner seat beside the window was Lily, her face pressed against the windowpane. Severus slid open the compartment door and sat down opposite Lily. She glanced at him and then looked back out of the window. _

_ She had been crying. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said in a constricted voice. “Tuney h-hates me. Because of this, b-because I’m going off to Hogwarts without her.” _

_ “So what?”  _

_ She threw him a look of deep annoyance. “So she’s my big sister!” _

_ “She’s only a—” He seemed to barely catch himself; Lily, too busy trying to wipe her eyes without being noticed, did not hear him. “But we’re going!” he said, unable to suppress the exhilaration in his voice. “This is it! We’re off to Hogwarts!” She nodded slowly, mopping her eyes, but in spite of herself, she half-smiled back at him. “You’d better be in Slytherin,” Severus added, encouraged that she had brightened a little. _

_ “Slytherin?” One of the boys sharing the compartment, who had shown no interest at all in Lily or Severus until that point, looked around at the word. _

_ Draco, whose attention had been focused entirely on the two beside the window, was startled to realize that he absolutely recognized the eleven-year-old James Potter. He was slight, black-haired like Severus, but with that indefinable air of having been well-cared-for, even adored, that Severus so conspicuously lacked. That, and his hazel eyes brimming with self-assurance were the only differences that Draco could see between this boy, and his son a decade later. _

_ “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” James went on, addressing the boy lounging on the seats opposite him; with a shock, Draco realized that it was Sirius. _

_ His cousin did not smile. “My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he said, but there wasn't any pride in his tone as he said it. _

_ “Blimey,” James said teasingly, “And I thought you seemed all right!” _

_ Sirius did grin at that. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?” _

_ James lifted an invisible sword. “ ‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’ Like my dad.”  _

_ Severus made a small, disparaging noise, and James turned on him. “Got a problem with that?” _

_ “No,” Severus scoffed, though his slight sneer said otherwise. “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy—” _

_ “Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” Sirius interjected, making James roar with laughter. Lily sat up, rather flushed, and looked from James to Sirius in dislike. _

_ “Come on, Sev, let’s find another compartment.” _

_ “Oooooo...” James and Sirius imitated her lofty voice; James tried to trip Severus as he passed. “See ya, Snivellus!” a voice called, as the compartment door slammed. _

And the scene dissolved once more.

_ Draco was standing right behind Severus as they faced the candlelit House tables, lined with rapt faces. Professor McGonagall called out, “Evans, Lily!” He watched Harry Potter’s mother walk forward on trembling legs and sit down upon the rickety stool; Professor McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat onto her head, and barely a second after it had touched the dark red hair, the hat cried, “Gryffindor!” Draco heard Severus let out a tiny groan in front of him. _

_ Lily took off the hat, handed it back to McGonagall, then hurried toward the cheering Gryffindors, but as she went she glanced back at Severus, and there was a sad little smile on her face. Harry saw Sirius move up the bench to make room for her. She took one look at him, clearly recognized him from the train, folded her arms, and firmly turned her back on him. _

_ The roll call continued. Draco watched silently as Remus, Wormtail, and his James all joined Lily and Sirius at the Gryffindor table. At last, when only a dozen students remained to be sorted, McGonagall called for Severus. _

_ Draco walked with him to the stool, watched him place the hat upon his head. “Slytherin!” cried the Sorting Hat. And Severus moved off to the other side of the Hall, away from Lily, to where the Slytherins were cheering for him, and--Draco startled again--his own father, a Prefect badge gleaming upon his chest, patted Severus on the back as he sat down beside him. _

Another scene change...

_ Lily and Severus were walking across the castle courtyard, evidently arguing.  _ Draco hurried to catch up with them, to listen in. As he reached them, he realized how much taller they both were: a few years seemed to have passed since their Sorting. _ “...thought we were supposed to be friends?” Severus was saying. “Best friends?” _

_ “We are, Sev, but I don’t like some of the people you’re hanging round with! I’m sorry, but I detest Avery and Mulciber! Mulciber! What do you see in him, Sev, he’s creepy! D’you know what he tried to do to Mary Macdonald the other day?” Lily had reached a pillar and leaned against it, looking up into his thin, pale face with pleading eyes. _

_ “That was nothing,” Severus protested. “It was a laugh, that’s all—” _

_ “It was Dark Magic, and if you think that’s funny—” _

_ “What about the stuff that Potter and his mates get up to?” Severus demanded. His color rose again as he said it, unable, it seemed, to hold in his resentment. _

_ “What’s Potter got to do with anything?” Lily asked, looking bewildered. _

_ “They sneak out at night. There’s something weird about that Lupin. Where does he keep going?” _

_ “He’s ill,” Lily retorted. “They say he’s ill—” _

_ “Every month at the full moon?” Severus countered. _

_ “I know your theory,” Lily snapped, and now she sounded cold. “Why are you so obsessed with them anyway? Why do you care what they’re doing at night?” _

_ “I’m just trying to show you they’re not as wonderful as everyone seems to think they are.” The intensity of his gaze made her blush. _

_ “They don’t use Dark Magic, though.” She dropped her voice. “And you’re being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever’s down there—” _

_ Severus’ whole face contorted and he spluttered, “Saved?  _ Saved _? You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re not going to—I won’t let you—” _

_ “ _ Let _ me?” Lily’s bright green eyes narrowed into slits, and the expression was so familiar that Draco had a near flashback of Harry Potter giving him the same narrow-eyed look of anger; Severus backtracked desperately at once.  _

_ “I didn’t mean—I just don’t want to see you made a fool of—he fancies you, James Potter fancies you!” The words seemed wrenched from him against his will. “And he’s not...everyone thinks...big Quidditch hero—” _

_ Severus’ bitterness and dislike were rendering him nearly incoherent, and Lily’s eyebrows were traveling farther and farther up her forehead. “I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag,” she said, cutting across Severus’ stuttering. “I don’t need you to tell me that. But Mulciber and Avery’s idea of humor is just evil. Evil, Sev. I don’t understand how you can be friends with them.” _

_ Draco doubted that Severus had even heard her strictures on Mulciber and Avery. The moment she had insulted James Potter, his whole body had relaxed, and as they walked away there was a new spring in Severus’s step. _

The scene dissolved once more.

_ Draco watched as Severus left the Great Hall after sitting his O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, watched as he wandered away from the castle and strayed inadvertently close to the place beneath the beech tree where James, Sirius, Remus, and Wormtail all sat together.  _ Draco kept his distance this time, because he recognized this--he’d seen a fragment of this, the first time he’d glimpsed Lily in his godfather’s memories during their Legilimency lessons.

_ James had hoisted Severus into the air by his ankle and taunted him; Draco watched as Lily joined the group and went to Severus’ defense. Distantly he heard Severus shout at her in his humiliation and his fury, and he used the unforgivable word: “Mudblood.” _

The memory appeared to be later that night.

_ “I’m sorry.” _

_ “I’m not interested.” _

_ “I’m sorry!” _

_ “Save your breath.” Lily was wearing a dressing gown, standing with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. “I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here.” _

_ “I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—” _

_ “Slipped out?” There was no pity in Lily’s voice. “It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends—you see, you don’t even deny it! You don’t even deny that’s  _ _ what you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?” He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. “I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.” _

_ “No—listen, I didn’t mean—” _

_ “—to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?” He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a contemptuous look she turned and climbed back through the portrait hole,  _ and the corridor dissolved.

This scene took a little longer to reform: Draco seemed to fly through shifting shapes and colors until his surroundings solidified again and he found himself on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in the darkness, the wind whistling through the branches of a few leafless trees.

_ The adult Severus was panting, turning on the spot, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, waiting for something or for someone....his fear infected Draco too, even though he knew that he could not be harmed, and he looked over his shoulder, wondering what it was that Severus was waiting for. _

_ Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through the air: Draco thought of lightning, but Severus had dropped to his knees and his wand had flown out of his hand. “Don’t kill me!” _

_ “That was not my intention.” Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating had been drowned by the sound of the wind in the branches. He stood before Severus with his robes whipping around him, and his face was illuminated from below in the light cast by his wand.  _

_ “Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?” _

_ “No—no message—I’m here on my own account!” Severus was wringing his hands: He looked a little mad, with his wild black hair flying around his face. “I— I come with a warning—no, a request—please—” _

_ Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and branches still flew through the night air around them, silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced each other. “What request could a Death Eater make of me?” _

_ “The—the prophecy...the prediction...Trelawney...” _

_ “Ah, yes,” Dumbledore sighed. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?” _

_ “Everything—everything that I heard!” Severus gasped. “That is why—it is for that reason—he thinks it means Lily Evans!” _

_ “The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” Dumbledore countered. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of July—” _

_ “You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down—kill them all—” _

_ “If she means so much to you,” Dumbledore cut him off, “Surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?” _

_ “I have—I have asked him—” _

_ “You disgust me,” Dumbledore said sharply, and Draco had never heard so much contempt in the older wizard’s voice; Severus seemed to shrink a little. “You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?” _

_ Severus said nothing, but merely looked up at Dumbledore before choking out more words. “Hide them all, then,” he croaked. “Keep her—them—safe. Please.” _

_ “And what will you give me in return, Severus?” _

_ “In—in return?” Severus gaped at Dumbledore, and Draco expected him to protest, but after a long moment he said, “Anything.” _

The hilltop faded, and Draco stood in Dumbledore’s office.

_ Something was making a terrible sound, like a wounded and dying animal. Severus was slumped forward in a chair and Dumbledore was standing over him, looking grim. After a moment or two, Severus raised his face, and he looked like a man who had lived a hundred years of misery since leaving the wild hilltop. “I thought...you were going...to keep her...safe....” _

_ “She and James put their faith in the wrong person,” Dumbledore told him quietly. “Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?” Severus’ breathing was shallow. _

Draco closed his eyes against a surge of grief for his godfather. So he had tried to intervene, to guarantee their survival--he had cared, he had  _ loved _ Lily. But Wormtail had come crawling out of the shadows, a power-hungry and greedy little coward who had willingly sold two innocent souls to their deaths, and then helped finish the job against their son thirteen years later.

_ “Her boy survives,” Dumbledore went on _ , and Draco opened his eyes, refocusing on the memory _. With a tiny jerk of the head, Severus seemed to flick off the thought as if it were an irk-some fly. “Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’s eyes, I am sure?” _

_ “Don’t!” Severus cried. “Gone...dead...” _

_ “Is this remorse, Severus?” _

_ “I wish...I wish I were dead....” _

_ “And what use would that be to anyone?” Dumbledore asked him coldly. “If you loved Lily Evans, if you  _ truly _ loved her, then your way forward is clear.” Severus seemed to peer up at him through a haze of deep pain, and Dumbledore’s words appeared to take a long time to reach him. _

_ “What—what do you mean?” _

_ “You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.” _

_ “He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone—” _

_ “The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.” There was a long pause, and slowly Severus regained control of himself, mastered his own breathing. _

_ At last he said, “Very well. Very well. But never—never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear...especially Potter’s son...I want your word!” _

_ “My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?” Dumbledore sighed, looking down into Severus’ ferocious, anguished face. “If you insist...“ _

Draco’s head spun before he settled again; looking around, he realized that now he was in Severus’ office--the old one, down in the dungeons near the Potions classroom--and judging by the familiar decor and the appearance of his godfather himself, a few years had passed.

_ Severus sat at his desk, staring at nothingness. His expression was bleak, nearly as grim and hopeless as it had been just before, weeping for Lily’s death in the Headmaster’s study. A knock came at the door, and Severus barely stirred other than to call out an invitation. Draco stayed to one side, watching curiously as Dumbledore himself entered; and now he knew when this memory was.  _

_ He could remember the Headmaster wearing the exact robes and various accessories that he was, because Draco did not think he would ever, as long as he lived, forget the day that he had returned to Hogwarts for his fifth year and ultimately fled to Dumbledore, telling him all, and pledging himself to the fight against Voldemort. _

_ “Severus...there has been another development. A most unique one.” _

_ His godfather raised his head, eyes dull. “What does any of it matter anymore? You’ve told me for thirteen years that Potter’s survival was our only chance. That without him, there was no means of victory. The Dark Lord triumphed over that boy, and he will be victorious in his quest to conquer the wizarding world.” _

_ Dumbledore shook his head, looking grave. “Indeed--losing Harry is a blow that will cause grief for ages to come. Even you, though your motives are different, clearly feel the deep impact that his death has on our cause--” _

_ “We have no cause left! I understand that the Dark Lord fears  _ you _ , but if that had been the problem all along, you’d never have needed Potter. What development could possibly change our course now?” _

_ “Draco Malfoy.” _

Draco sucked in breath, turning back in time to catch his godfather’s eyes snapping wide open, staring at Dumbledore in raw shock.  _ He did not seem to know where to begin to ask for clarification, but Dumbledore granted it anyway. “I have just left my office, after speaking with him for over an hour,” the Headmaster said. “You are aware of all that has occurred at Malfoy Manor this summer, of course, and have told me yourself--” _

_ Severus looked away, sickened, and Draco felt his heart surge with love and more grief for his godfather. “Draco came to report all of the same,” Dumbledore went on gently. “He came to me to warn of Voldemort’s return and Harry’s death...and to offer himself as a spy.” Watching Severus’ face, the Headmaster chuckled. “Yes, indeed. Now is not the time to abandon hope, my friend...now is the time to prepare a new approach, for we have a new hope in Draco Malfoy.” _

The office spun again, taking them dizzyingly back up dozens of floors to the other office again.

_ “He’s too young!” Severus was glaring at Dumbledore, and only then did Draco realize that this was near the very end of his fifth year, no doubt only days after the Battle in the Ministry of Magic. His godfather looked enraged, while Dumbledore just watched him with a calm expression, as always. “He’s barely sixteen now, Dumbledore, he’s still a child, you cannot expect to ask--” _

_ “I am not expecting and I am not asking,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You and I both know the risks, Severus. Draco knows the risks as well. Lord Voldemort will surely brand the boy, and it will be one of his last fatal mistakes, placing his trust in the wrong person.” _

_ “He never should have gotten involved in the first place!” Severus shot back. “The Dark Lord is angry, very angry, he doesn’t care for Lucius Malfoy anymore, and he certainly does not care for Draco! He’ll kill him, I know he will!” _

_ “And what makes you so certain?” _

_ “Lucius failed,” Severus said. “The Dark Lord does not accept failure. If it is one thing in this world, just one, that Lucius cares for, it’s Draco. Losing him will shatter him, which is exactly what the Dark Lord intends.” He slammed his hands on the desk, causing Draco to jump slightly, having never seen Severus so angry before. “You have to take Draco into hiding. You must! It’s the only way he’ll survive!” _

_ “And then what?” Dumbledore challenged. “If I take Draco into hiding, his position as a spy will be exposed. His parents will die. Do you think he’d handle being an orphan well?” _

_ “He’d have  _ me! _ ” _

_ There was silence for a long moment, before Dumbledore inclined his head gently. “I know that you and Draco share a close bond,” he said softly, “But it is far too late. He’s in too deep. He needs you now, more than ever, to protect him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath, in any way possible.” _

_ Severus’ eyes blazed, before he finally straightened himself up to his full height. “I failed Lily,” he said coldly. “I will not fail Narcissa. And I refuse to fail Draco. But you are putting too much responsibility on his shoulders, Dumbledore.” _

The surroundings melted briefly, before reemerging, with Severus and Dumbledore up in the Astronomy Tower together. It seemed to be nearing the end of winter, with snow on the ground but obviously melting, and the weather seemed almost mild. But Severus’ face was a mask of frustration and suspicion.

_ “Just what are you discussing with Draco?” _

_ “Things of import,” Dumbledore said, staring over the grounds, those blue eyes both intense and far away at the same time. “I’m giving him the information he needs to try and bring Lord Voldemort to an end, once and for all.” _

_ “He is  _ sixteen _ ,” Severus ground out, and Draco got the distinct impression that he had often been the topic of discussion--and disagreement--between the two older wizards by this point. “You cannot expect a teenager to try and fight the Dark Lord alone.” _

_ “He will not be alone. He seems to have the entirety of Dumbledore’s Army on his side, as well as Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Not to mention the Order of the Phoenix. But when it comes to his task, he will have to do it at least with as little company as possible.” _

_ “And then he will fail,” Severus spat out, “Because he is young and in over his head.” _

_ “You need to have some faith in your godson, Severus. Draco is every bit the Slytherin you claimed he would be; cunning and resourceful and ambitious. He will see through this war to the very bitter end, and I have faith that he will succeed.” Dumbledore looked a bit somber then. “He will succeed where Harry should have. It’s the only way.” _

_ “He nearly died already! If it wasn’t for Granger, Draco would have bled out to death in a damned bathroom, and the Dark Lord wouldn’t have cared at all!” _

_ “Exactly. Voldemort is underestimating Draco, has been from the beginning; and that is his greatest fatal mistake.” Dumbledore’s eyes blazed as he looked to Severus then. “Draco  _ will  _ succeed. You must hold tight to that.” _

The scene changed again, in a whirlwind of color and sound--

_ Severus stood again in the Headmaster’s study; Draco jumped slightly as Phineas Nigellus, of all people, came hurrying into view in his portrait. “Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean! The Mudblood—” _

_ “Do not use that word!” _

_ “—the Granger girl, then; she mentioned the place as she opened her bag and I heard her!” _

_ “Good. Very good!” cried the portrait of Dumbledore behind the headmaster’s chair. “Now, Severus, the sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under conditions of need and valor—and it is most likely far better that Draco not see you at all.” _

_ “I know,” Severus told him curtly. He approached the portrait of Dumbledore and pulled at its side. It swung forward, revealing a hidden cavity behind it from which he took the sword of Gryffindor. “And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so important that Draco have the sword? It isn’t even related to his House.” Severus added as he swung a traveling cloak over his robes.  _

_ “No, I don’t think so,” Dumbledore’s portrait affirmed, chuckling. “He will know what to do with it. Be careful, Severus.” _

_ Severus turned at the door. “Don’t worry, Dumbledore,” he said coolly. “I have a plan....” And then he left the room. _

There was one final memory.

_ Draco blinked in surprise as he saw himself; this was mere hours ago. His own face was rough and exhausted, lined, aged far beyond his seventeen years of age. He had just clasped Severus’ hand, and then his godfather sent him on his way, and Draco obediently turned to hurry from the office. _

_ Looking back at Severus, Draco felt his heart squeeze in on itself as the older man held up the Resurrection Stone, examining it as if unsure if he believed what Draco had told him. But still he turned it; and to Draco’s shock, it worked, and even Draco was able to see the figure of Lily Potter tremble into view, standing in front of Severus and smiling at him with gut-wrenching tenderness. _

Draco’s eyes welled up, and he stood there silently, tears sliding down his cheeks as he watched his godfather gaze longingly at the non-corporeal form of the woman he had loved.

_ “I’m sorry.” The weight in his voice, the agony that sliced through Severus’ face and posture as he uttered the words--it was clear that he had been waiting sixteen years--more, two decades, since he had lost Lily’s trust and friendship as he went down a dark path that she was unwilling to tolerate--to tell her this. “I’m so...so sorry.” _

_ “I know.” Lily’s smile trembled a little; there was undisguised sorrow in her gaze. “I knew when Albus warned us, when we went into hiding, that you did not intend for it to happen to us.” She blinked, her long lashes standing out darkly against her lovely pale cheeks. “I can’t say that I’m alright with having died in such a way...but I am thankful that you returned to Dumbledore as a result.” Lily stepped forward, reaching out towards Severus. “Thank you for protecting my son for as long as you did, Sev.” _

_ Hearing the nickname seemed to make him dissolve; Severus sank into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands. “I failed you. I betrayed you, over and over, and then I failed even to keep your son safe.” _

_ “Well, I admit I’m not there to witness everything firsthand--but I do know how things happened,” Lily said lightly. “Sev, listen to me. I  _ know _ that you’re sorry for how you let me down. And I know that you have berated yourself for sixteen years, taking full responsibility upon yourself for our deaths; and that’s ridiculous.” She came closer, kneeling in front of him; when Severus raised his head, she reached up as if to caress his cheek, but her fingers passed through his skin. _

_ “It is Voldemort himself who is to blame for mine and James’ deaths,” she said with absolute finality. “He chose to attempt to murder my one-year-old baby, and I will never apologize to anyone for refusing to step aside and allowing that to happen. And he alone is the monster who came into our home in the first place, and sought to kill my boy.” _

_ Rising, Lily leaned forward, and Draco could see by Severus’ face that he truly seemed to feel the gentle pressure of the tender kiss that she placed on the top of his head. “We’re gone; nothing can change that. But this battle is not yet over, and you have more to do, Sev.” She smiled at him, warm and encouragingly. “Go with a clear conscience; fight for the people you can still protect.” _

_ And then she was no longer there. _

_ Severus was still and silent for a very long time. Draco did not move, trusting that his godfather was still in control of this memory; that they were even still in his mind meant that he was holding on, and that there was more to this for him to share with Draco. Finally Severus rose, and he seemed to have composed himself and dried his tears. He held up his hand; the Stone sat in his palm, unmoving and still. _

_ Then he turned around, and looked at Dumbledore’s portrait over the desk. Severus circled around to stand before the wall, holding it up. “I think it is better if this....becomes lost in plain sight. Do you disagree?” _

_ “I do,” Dumbledore said gravely. “I more than concur. Proceed, my friend.” And Draco watched, wide-eyed, as his godfather very carefully placed the Resurrection Stone into a decorative coil at the bottom center of Dumbledore’s portrait frame. He drew his wand, and with a single tap, the wood quivered and molded itself around the stone and through the deep fissure that had been left when Dumbledore broke the Horcrux within. _

_ When Severus drew back, Draco saw that it was only because he  _ knew _ that it was the same stone; if he hadn’t, then he would have seen it as just a touch of obsidian embellishment in the dark mahogany frame. _

With the physical sensation of being abruptly seized by the back of his shirt and dragged, upwards and backwards, through icy water, Draco found himself suddenly careening back out of Severus’ mind.

For a moment, as Draco crashed back into his own skull and found his thoughts and body to be under his own control again, he felt raw terror that the sudden severing of the connection meant he was too late to say goodbye to his godfather. The memories felt as if they had taken hours to swim though, but Draco knew that it really only lasted mere seconds.

Severus looked as though there was no blood left in his body; his grip on Draco’s jacket slackened, and the hand that he’d held to his temple had dropped limply to his side. The air was now whistling in and out of his lungs, each breath shorter and shallower, as if counting down his remaining seconds.

Then Severus’ gaze slid to one side. To Hermione, Draco realized, and he reached back, finding her hand with his. She held on tightly, leaning into his side, and Draco’s vision dissolved into tears that would not stop flowing as he saw his godfather take in the sight of him with the woman he loved; an almost smile touched the older man’s bloodless lips. “Cher...ish....her.”

Draco nodded wordlessly; he understood. Their eyes held each other fast; but after another breath, something in the depths of the darker pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding onto Draco thudded to the floor, and Severus moved no more.


	45. We Will Be Free When It Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’d have to hold back, to observe and to do what he could to protect his own, until the right moment arose to strike at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit when did we hit the point of only having two more chapters to post.

Draco remained kneeling at Severus’ side for innumerable moments, simply staring down at him. He did not know how to wrap his mind around this reality.

The deaths thus far hadn’t fully settled in his mind, hadn’t sunk in yet--he could almost convince himself that he hadn’t seen Percy Weasley die right before his eyes. He could believe that he’d return to the castle...and that no one else would be dead. Because Draco did not know how to live in a world where his godfather had been murdered, least of all this gruesomely, while Draco was right there close by, helpless to save him.

Suddenly a high, cold voice spoke, sounding so close to them that Draco jumped to his feet, wand sliding into his hand, thinking that Voldemort had reentered the room. His fingers were slick with blood, and it smeared over the sleek hawthorn of his wand, making his stomach roll.

Riddle’s voice reverberated from the walls and floor, and Draco realized that he was once again talking to Hogwarts and all the surrounding area using magical magnification; the residents of Hogsmeade and all those still fighting in the castle would hear him as clearly as if he stood beside them. It was as if Draco could feel the bastard’s breath on the back of his neck, a deathblow away, and he shuddered as he listened.

_ “You have fought...”  _ the icy voice declared,  _ “...valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish for this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately...You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.“ _

Movement drew Draco’s eye, and he watched with a tightening ache in his gut as Ron conjured a simple bed sheet; he crossed to Severus’ body, very gently covering him in the fabric so that he was fully concealed. He didn’t even seem to have done it for Draco’s sake, for when he looked up and found the blonde watching him, Ron just bowed his head as if to indicate his condolences and sorrow for his friend.

Hermione’s hand slipped into his, and Draco held on tightly, tensing as Riddle spoke again.

_ “I speak now, Dragon, directly to you. This battle, and the blood that it has shed, is on you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself; it was you who chose to ascend to a position to challenge me, and therefore it is you who must account to your people why their loved ones have bled and perished to shield you from me.” _

Draco’s jaw clenched, and it was only the hardening grip of Hermione’s fingers around his own that reminded him--no one he loved would agree with that assessment. No one in Hogwarts was cursing his name as they listened to their enemy taunt them all so cruelly.

_ “I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not given yourself up, then battle recommences...and this time, I shall enter the fray myself, Dragon. I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.” _

Both Ron and Hermione shook their heads frantically, looking at Draco. “Don’t listen to him,” Ron growled. “It’ll be alright, mate.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Let’s—let’s get back to the castle, if he’s gone to the forest we’ll need to think of a new plan—to get the snake, and then him.”

The trio crawled back through the tunnel, none of them speaking, and Draco wondered whether Ron and Hermione could still hear Riddle’s voice ringing in their heads, the way that he could.  _ You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest....One hour.... _

It could only be an hour or so from dawn, yet the sky remained pitch-black. The three of them hurried past the now-completely-ruined gates, across the courtyard, toward the demolished stone steps into the castle. A lone clog, the size of a small boat, lay abandoned in front of them; there was no other sign of Grawp or of his attacker.

The castle was unnaturally silent as they entered. There were no flashes of light now, no bangs or screams or shouts. The flagstones of the deserted entrance hall were stained with blood, and emeralds were still scattered all over the floor, along with pieces of marble and splintered wood. Part of the banisters of the grand staircase had been blown away.

“Where is everyone?” Hermione whispered hollowly. Ron gestured, then led the way to the Great Hall.

Draco stopped in the doorway, catching his breath as he took in the scene before them.

The House tables were still gone, and the room was once more completely packed. The survivors stood in groups, their arms around each other, while the injured were being treated upon the raised platform at the head of the room by Madam Pomfrey and a small group of helpers.

Even from the entrance of the hall, Draco could see Firenze the centaur amongst the injured; his flank poured blood and he shook where he lay, unable to stand. The Patil sisters were there, as well, Padma’s head heavily bandaged and Parvati clutching her hand, while Luna offered them each a goblet of whatever Madam Pomfrey was mixing to distribute to all of the wounded.

The dead, meanwhile, lay in a row in the middle of the Hall. Draco could not see Percy’s body, because his family surrounded him. Fred was kneeling at his head; Molly was lying across Percy’s chest, her body shaking, Arthur stroking her hair while tears cascaded down his cheeks. Without a word to Draco or Hermione, Ron walked over to join them, meeting George in a fierce hug. Hermione squeezed his hand once more, then left to approach Ginny, whose face was swollen and blotchy; she all but melted into Hermione’s embrace.

As the girls moved to join the rest of the family, Draco had a clear view of the bodies lying next to Percy.

He could see some faces that he knew well, and some he didn’t, but what disturbed him most was the sheet number of stretchers, one after another, laid out in neat order...so many bodies. Mad-Eye Moody, the Auror...Lavender Brown, unfortunately, had not survived Greyback; and Colin Creevey had apparently managed to sneak back onto the grounds. He looked unbearably tiny in death. Several others Draco recognized; Cassius Warrington, who had come to help along with Oliver Wood; Roger Davies, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Avery Lynch…

So many dead.

It nearly shattered him, crushed him from the inside out. So many friends and comrades and classmates, fallen in battle as they fought to support and protect Draco in his efforts to bring Voldemort down.

The Great Hall seemed to become smaller, to shrink away in front of him, as Draco reeled backward from the doorway. He could not draw breath. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could not look into their eyes, knowing that if he had given himself up in the first place, Percy might never have died....he yearned not to feel...he wished he could rip out his heart, his innards, everything that was screaming inside him....

“Draco!” His head jerked up at the sound of an achingly familiar voice, and suddenly he was wrapped up tightly in Tonks’ arms. She was bruised and bleeding, but she was alive, her heart beating wildly against his own, and he threw his arms out to hug her back. “Oh thank Merlin! We couldn’t find you after the Death Eaters retreated, we were thinking the worst--”

“Remus?” he choked out. “Sirius?”

“They’re okay. Madam Pomfrey is looking after them both.” She pulled back to look into his face, eyes teary. “Are  _ you _ alright?”

_ No, he wasn’t fucking alright.  _ But he managed a nod, regardless of how he felt, before swallowing. “Severus is dead,” he said hoarsely. “Riddle killed him. He sicced Nagini on him, his snake.”

Tonks’ face paled further, and she swallowed, ducking her head as she tried to process--both the fact of this news, and the ugly way in which it had happened. Her hair flared black with sorrow before fading back to its now-usual dark purple. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know--I know how you loved him. And he you.”

Draco nodded numbly, hardly noticing as she gave him one more hug before turning away to go back to her husband. Draco took one slow step backwards--and stumbled as Neville nearly walked into him.

He was one half of a pair that was carrying a body in from the grounds. “You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville,” Oliver Wood was saying, and he heaved Ernie Macmillan over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried him into the Great Hall. Draco watched him go, staring in horror at the Hufflepuff’s slack face. The boy had been pompous, arrogant to a fault and all-too-often annoying...but to see him dead...

Neville slumped against the door frame for a moment, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked as if he had aged decades in a few short hours. Then he turned away towards the darkness outside, seemingly gearing up in order to head out and recover more bodies.

Almost like a knee-jerk reaction, Draco moved forward to catch his arm. “Neville?”

“Blimey, Draco, you nearly gave me heart failure!” The Gryffindor stumbled slightly, then grinned at him weakly, catching himself and standing straight again. “Sorry, I’m fine. What’s up?”

Draco hesitated a moment, trying to think of something to say, or something to do. Riddle’s voice was still ringing in his head, the ultimatum clearly a ticking time bomb, but he knew in his heart that if he tried to answer the Dark Lord’s challenge, that he would die, as surely as so many others had.

“...Do you need help?” was all he could ask, and Neville smiled a bit sadly, nodding. And they left the Great Hall together, to try and recover more bodies.

Thankfully, they found more survivors than fallen fighters. The witch who ran the Owl Post in Hogsmeade had been knocked unconscious; Astoria was found by a staircase, her legs broken, partially hidden and clearly in pain, but she mustered a smile as Draco hugged her out of sheer relief. “Get my legs mended and I’ll be ready to fight some more,” she promised, as Draco got to work on applying splints to her legs in order to move her.

“Absolutely not,” Draco said. “Daphne would kill me.”

“I’m not abandoning you now,” Astoria said fiercely. Then, a bit hesitantly: “Did you see her? Is she still alive?”

“She was with Pansy and Blaise,” Neville assured her before he hoisted her into his arms. “I’ll take you to her now.” Draco followed after him, detouring slightly when he heard a groan. Terry Boot was slumped against the remains of a nearby pillar, clutching his very blood-stained side. Reaching him, Draco checked that moving him would not worsen the wound before hooking the Ravenclaw’s arm over his shoulders and carefully helping him limp into the Great Hall, and up to join the rest receiving medical care.

Neville moved to one side, slumping to sit and catch his breath, and Draco joined him there. He could still see Ron and Hermione with the Weasley family; being able to keep track of them was comforting, though he knew that he was in no fit state, mentally, to join them at that moment.

Riddle’s challenge continued circling through his mind. He could not comply, not to the demand itself; Draco could not go into the Forest to confront his enemy. He would have to wait--Riddle had said that he would join the battle himself, next.

He would come out into the grounds, perhaps into the castle himself, and no doubt he’d have Nagini with him. That would be the best opportunity, to both kill her, and then to destroy the man himself. At last, he would be mortal, all the torn-away scraps of his soul destroyed, leaving him fully human--well, a fractured human--and able to be killed.

The one terrible aspect was that Riddle had promised that the battle would resume, when he involved himself. More people would be hurt--more would die.

Draco folded in on himself, rubbing his hands over his face. He had to wait...even though doing so would be torturous.

Until he had a clear shot at killing Nagini, he could not try and take on Riddle. Draco couldn’t even reveal himself before the snake was destroyed, for fear that the Dark Lord’s rage--at his survival, at his years of being a spy, and at his “audacity” for being this Dragon that Riddle had deigned to come in person to eliminate--would cause more death and destruction that Draco could have prevented by remaining concealed until the perfect opportunity presented itself.

So that was it, then. When their hour’s reprieve was up, Draco had to vanish. He’d have to hold back, to observe and to do what he could to protect his own, until the right moment arose to strike at last.

It helped to know that Ron and Hermione were just as aware as he was that Nagini had to die first. He was not completely alone in this final quest--

Draco blinked, raising his head again. He was not alone--and it also did not need to only be down to Ron and Hermione to serve as his backup, should the chance present itself for someone to reach Nagini before Draco could.

“Neville?” The Gryffindor looked over at him expectantly. Despite his countless injuries and the battering that he’d taken in the battle thus far, he still looked so earnest, so ready for action. And there was nothing but trust and openness when he looked at Draco, which made the blonde’s heart ache with affection and appreciation. He had some truly incredible people in his corner, and it was overwhelmingly comforting.

His voice was stronger now. This could be done, and he did not have to be afraid. “When--when he comes, when this starts up again...things may get a bit confusing.” Draco swallowed hard. “I might be out of sight for a while. But you know about the snake, Voldemort’s snake? He calls her Nagini.”

“I’ve heard of it, yeah....what about it?”

“It’s got to be killed.” Neville’s eyebrows rose, but Draco just nodded firmly. He couldn’t explain in-depth, he just needed Neville to trust and accept his word. “Ron and Hermione know this, but just in case they--”

He stopped himself before he could say something that he would regret. Giving voice to a fear of something that  _ could not happen, _ that Draco  _ would not allow to happen-- _ he simply refused. “Just in case they’re—busy—caught up in the fighting, whatever....and you get the chance—”

“Kill the snake?”

“Kill the snake,” Draco confirmed. “Thanks, Neville. The more people looking to finish her off, the better my chances get.”

“All right, Draco.” Neville frowned, looking at him more closely. “You’re okay, are you?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I mean, considering everything.”

Neville seized his wrist as Draco made to rise, needing to move, to be getting something done. “We’re all going to keep fighting, Draco. You know that, right?”

He smiled back at the other man, nodding. That, Draco did understand, down to the last fiber of his being. “We’re going to finish this. I know.” Leaving his friend behind, Draco started walking at random. He moved away from where the injured were being treated, past the rows of the dead--he did not need to dwell on those faces.

The rest of the Great Hall was just filled with clumps of fighters, comforting each other and talking quietly; someone had accessed the kitchens and set up a few spots throughout the hall where food and drink was put out, and people were passing out what appeared to just be simple plates--bread, cheese, things that did not require preparation or work beyond just being served. 

Someone handed Draco a plain roll as he wandered, and he ate it mindlessly, accepting the energy boost without tasting a crumb of it.

Someone was crying. Draco slowed, spotting Luna crouching beside a girl who was balled in on herself and crying into her arms, whimpering for her mother. “It’s alright,” Luna was saying gently, stroking her hair. “It’s okay. I promise, you’re going to be okay.”

“But I want to go home,” the girl whispered. “I don’t want to fight anymore!”

“I know,” Luna replied, and Draco heard her voice crack. “You will. We’ll get through this, and you’ll go home. I promise.”

More low voices drew Draco’s attention; on a bench up against the nearest wall, he saw Dean and Seamus sitting with Aberforth Dumbledore, talking quietly over goblets of pumpkin juice. They caught sight of him, and all three nodded in grave greeting, tipping their drinks towards him; Draco managed a smile that he was sure looked as strained and sad as he felt.

Leaving the Great Hall, Draco inhaled as the volume of murmuring voices decreased with distance. It felt as if his chest was able to expand fully again, and Draco continued walking, feeling calmer and more stable with every step he took away from the dire scene of pain, grief, and helpless waiting.

Their hour was nearly over.

His feet began carrying him without conscious instruction. Draco tugged out the Invisibility Cloak and pulled it over himself, then began to climb the grand staircase, leaving the sounds of his friends and loved ones well-behind him.

On the second floor landing, Draco made his way over to where there used to be a window with a small balcony, one of many that lined the front of Hogwarts and looked down over the courtyard.

Now, the wall had been blasted away. Rubble and debris was piled everywhere, from the carpeted corridor in which Draco stood, down into the courtyard below and heaped up against the castle’s walls. Standing in the jagged open space, Draco saw that the destroyed stonework actually formed a makeshift, uneven stairway of sorts--if he wanted to, he’d be able to get from where he stood right to the base of the castle’s front steps without issue.

It was as good a spot as any. Draco lowered himself into a semi-sitting, almost-crouch position, making sure that the Cloak kept him fully covered. From here, he could watch--and if the chance arose for him to reach Nagini before Ron, Hermione, or Neville could, then Draco would fling himself down in order to slay her before he turned on her master.

Time passed, but he didn’t count the seconds; they were somewhere close to the end of their one hour, and since Draco was certainly not in the Forest, surrendering--or dueling, whichever Riddle thought that the Dragon would come to do in order to protect the people he loved--then soon enough, he would show himself. Draco wondered if he would speak first, to give one more chance for the Dragon to turn himself in. Or to invite the survivors to surrender to him to save themselves.

Or would Riddle simply sweep into Hogwarts and begin raining death upon them, since his demand for the Dragon’s surrender had not been answered? Draco held his breath, listening, watching for any sign of movement on the grounds, waiting to see what would come.

Gradually, sounds did begin to reach him.

In the far distance, he could see movement in the Forbidden Forest; treetops were swaying as dozens of bodies moved beneath them, marching through the darkness towards the open air of the grounds. The first thing that became visible was a rippling line of black--the Death Eaters, in their robes and masks, with two giants crashing along behind them. Draco could hear trees creaking and falling as they passed; they made such a din that birds rose shrieking into the sky, drowning out even the jeers of the Death Eaters as they strode forward in confidence.

The procession made its way out over the grounds, and slowly a chill moved ahead of them, reaching the castle itself before they could; the dementors drifted along at the outer treeline.

Draco’s lip curled as he watched their phantom-like figures, moving along slowly, awaiting Riddle’s instructions. They would not affect him now. The fact of his own survival, his commitment to his task and his certainty that  _ they would succeed _ all burned inside him, a talisman against them, as though his phoenix were alight and blazing beside him.

And then Riddle himself became visible. He stepped forward through the line of his followers and took the lead, moving forward silently and coldly. Draco watched without moving as the tall, serpentine figure made his way over the grass and through the ruined gateway, crossing onto the courtyard stones. He walked forward only until the entire assembly of his Death Eaters had filtered in through the broken walls behind him; once they were all visible from the front of the castle, then Riddle stopped.

He was wearing the great snake Nagini around his shoulders, now free of her enchanted cage. Draco stared at her, his fingers twitching with the urge to raise his wand and fire a curse right then and there--but he did not know what charms were around her still. The lack of the glittering tank did not mean that she was undefended as she hung around her master’s neck.

A moment later Riddle spoke, his voice magically magnified so that it swelled through the grounds, crashing upon Draco’s eardrums.

“I have granted you this hour to compose yourselves--and for your hero, this Dragon, to end this madness at last. I waited the full hour to allow him to turn himself in and protect you all.” Riddle’s eyes were blazing, and Draco tightened his hold on his wand, wishing he could hex the bastard into silence.

“Your Dragon did not come. He did not elect to choose your lives over his own.” Riddle’s voice rose louder still. “I begin to question your choice in heroes, fighters of Hogwarts, as this new figure-head has remained so secretive that he does not even own his true name.”

Draco wanted to laugh at that.  _ Just you wait till you realize my name, you pompous prick. _

“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and your Dragon has proven himself a coward...he sought to replace the Boy Who Lived, but here, at the final moment, he has betrayed you all.”

There was only silence in the grounds and from the castle. Below his viewpoint, Draco saw the reddish glow that meant light was streaming out from the entrance hall, but he saw no shadows or movement to suggest that the survivors within were emerging to let Riddle or the Death Eaters see them yet.

“There must be no more war,” Riddle asserted. “Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their families. Come out of the castle now; kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

Now, at last, there was sound below; Draco leaned, careul to remain concealed by the Cloak, and saw figures slowly beginning to appear. His heart skipped when he recognized McGonagall at the lead, with those closest to him, the members of the D.A. and the Order, fanning out around her, followed by the students and staff of Hogwarts. He could see Ron and Hermione--Luna, Neville, Ginny--Remus and Sirius, Tonks, Kingsley--more and more stepped out, spreading to fill the front steps and stare down their enemy.

Riddle’s gaze swept over them all, and Draco watched his expression shift from curious, to calculating, to contemptuous.

“I know many of your faces,” he said, and it was only by the magical magnification that his words were audible, for his voice was now a scornful hiss. “Your Dragon is no longer even hiding among you, then?” He laughed, the sound mirthless and disturbing as he stroked Nagini’s head with a single white finger. “He  _ has _ abandoned you--he has escaped, saved himself!”

“You have no idea who he is--and you’re afraid!” It was Ron’s voice that rang out, and Draco felt love and pride surge up for his friend. “You’re terrified, because you  _ know _ that you won’t win. You took Harry from us--but another took up his mantle. No matter what you’ve done, what you do now; you cannot force us down--we  _ will _ stop you!”

Around Ron, the crowd of survivors took up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eaters, until _ —“Silence!”  _ Riddle snarled, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and a magical silence was forced upon them all. “It is  _ over!  _ Brave words, boy--but you are sorely mistaken.”

Draco was a good distance away--but he had lived in unbearably close contact with Riddle for too many summers. Even from where he crouched, he could see that the man was no longer stoic. He was twitchy now, agitated, clearly losing his sense of icy calm.

“Do you understand now, deluded ones?” Riddle continued, but now the mockery in his tone sounded, at least to Draco, a little shaken. “Harry Potter, he was no hero. He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him! And now, his replacement? Your supposed savior, the Dragon, is no braver--where is he? Why does he not face me, if that was ever his intention--”

“He’s already beaten you!” Ron yelled, cutting him off, and the Silencing Charm broke; the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.

“He is  _ not here,” _ Riddle snarled. “You stand here in defiance--signing your own death warrants, in your determination not to bow--but your Dragon does not appear! You are  _ forsaken _ by your would-be hero--!”

But then Riddle cut off yet again: Draco heard a scuffle and a shout beneath him, out of his line of sight--then another bang, a flash of light, and a grunt of pain.

Someone had broken free of the crowd beneath his feet and charged right at Riddle. Draco saw the figure hit the ground, Disarmed, and Riddle hurled the challenger’s wand aside and laughed coldly. “And who is this?” he asked, in his soft snake’s hiss. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh, the sound making Draco feel as if shards of glass were skating down his spine. Almost as much as he wished to eliminate Nagini, and then Riddle, he longed too to see his aunt destroyed as well.

“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord!” Bellatrix cackled shrilly. “The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?” The relish in her voice made Draco wish that he could curse her into oblivion. Knowing what had happened to Neville’s parents--what  _ she _ had done to them--he felt a loathing that could not be defined or expressed in words, hearing her sound so pleased by her own cruelty.

“Ah, yes, I remember,” Riddle purred, looking down at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet--unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man’s-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. “But you are a pureblood, are you not, my brave boy?” Riddle added to Neville, who stood facing him, his empty hands curled in fists.

“So what if I am?” Neville asked loudly. Draco was torn between terror for his friend, and pride and admiration--Neville had become every bit the Gryffindor man that the Sorting Hat had known that he was. Watching him stand literally toe-to-toe with the most fearsome wizard of his lifetime, it was shocking to see the complete courage and resolve in Neville’s stance.

“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom,” Riddle mused.

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” Neville snapped back. “Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouted, thrusting a fist into the air with the declaration; there was an answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort’s Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold.

“Very well,” Riddle said softly, and Draco heard more danger in the silkiness of his voice than in the most powerful curse the man had ever uttered. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, then we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he concluded quietly, “...be it.”

Draco saw Voldemort wave his wand, an almost lazy gesture.

Seconds later, out of one of the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and landed in Riddle’s hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and ragged: it was the Sorting Hat. “There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” Riddle declared. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”

Draco grimaced at the thought. He was damned proud of his House and of its colors, but he was quite certain that not even Salazar himself would condone Riddle’s idea of a “better,” all-emerald Hogwarts.

Riddle pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still; he forced the hat onto Neville’s head, hard enough that it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle--but as one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.

“Longbottom here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me,” Riddle said; and with a flick of his wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.

Screams split the dawn, and Neville was aflame, rooted to the spot, unable to move. Draco sucked in breath, horrified--he could not bear it. He must act, he couldn’t let his friend die, not like this, regardless of the snake still being alive-- _ fuck _ Tom Riddle, fuck his maliciousness and his utter disregard for human life--

And then several things happened at the same instant.

They heard uproar from the distant boundary of the school; what sounded like hundreds of people were suddenly swarming over the distant walls, and pelting toward the castle, uttering loud war cries. At the same time, Grawp came lumbering around the side of the castle and yelled,  _ “Hagger!”  _ His cry was answered by enraged roars from Voldemort’s giants, who ran at Grawp like bull elephants, making the earth quake as if it was falling apart at its very foundations. Then came hooves, and the twangs of bows--and arrows were suddenly falling amongst the Death Eaters, who broke ranks at once, shouting their surprise and panic, and pain, as some of the arrows found their targets.

And at the center of the courtyard, Neville moved, too. In one swift, fluid motion, he broke free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him; the flaming hat fell from his head; and he drew from its depths something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle—

The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or the stampeding centaurs, and yet it seemed to draw every eye from both sides. With a single stroke, Neville sliced off the enormous snake’s head, and it spun high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall, and Riddle’s mouth opened in a scream of fury that nobody could hear as the snake’s body thudded to the ground at his feet.

Making sure to remain securely hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Draco flicked his wrist, casting a Shield Charm between Neville and Riddle before the latter could raise his wand.

Immediately, chaos reigned. The charging centaurs were scattering the Death Eaters like billiards balls; everyone was fleeing the giants’ stamping feet; and nearer and nearer thundered the reinforcements that had come from who-knew-where. Draco watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as great winged creatures soared into view and around the heads of Voldemort’s giants--Hogwarts’ thestrals, and Buckbeak the hippogriff, scratching at their eyes while Grawp punched and pummeled them.

Now the wizards, defenders of Hogwarts and Death Eaters alike, were being forced backwards into the castle by the melee. Draco moved at once, endeavoring to keep the Cloak over himself while knowing that the insanity he was lunging to join would serve to cover him to some degree.

Skidding down the irregular steps that the debris had formed, Draco joined the fray, firing off jinxes and curses at any Death Eater he encountered. They crumpled, not knowing what or who had hit them, and their bodies were trampled by the retreating crowd that was staggering and stumbling back into the confines of the castle.

Still hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Draco, too, was buffeted into the entrance hall.

His eyes roamed wildly, searching for Riddle; he was across the room, firing spells wildly as he was backed into the Great Hall, still screaming instructions to his followers as they fought. Draco cast more Shield Charms, and Riddle’s would-be victims--Seamus Finnigan and Hannah Abbott--darted past him into the Great Hall, where they joined the battle already flourishing inside it.

And now there were more, even more people storming up the front steps, and Draco saw Charlie Weasley overtaking Horace Slughorn, who was still wearing his emerald pajamas. They seemed to have returned at the head of what looked like the families and friends of every Hogwarts student who had remained to fight, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners of Hogsmeade.

More centaurs burst into the hall in a tumultuous clatter of hooves, and behind Draco, the door that led to the kitchens was blasted off its hinges. The house elves of Hogwarts swarmed into the entrance hall, screaming and waving carving knives and cleavers--and at their head, the locket of Regulus Black bouncing on his chest, was Kreacher, his bullfrog’s voice audible even above the din: “Fight! Fight! Fight for my Master, defender of house elves! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! Fight!”

They were hacking and stabbing at the ankles and shins of Death Eaters, their tiny faces alive with malice, and everywhere Draco looked Death Eaters were folding under sheer weight of numbers, overcome by spells, dragging arrows from wounds, stabbed in the leg by elves, or else simply attempting to escape--but swallowed by the oncoming horde.

But it was far from over yet. Draco darted between duelers and into the Great Hall, struggling still towards his quarry.

Riddle was in the very center of the battle, and he was striking and smiting all within reach. Draco could not get a clear shot at him, but he continued to fight his way nearer and nearer, laboring to keep the Cloak securely over himself.

The Great Hall was steadily becoming more and more crowded. Draco saw Yaxley slammed to the floor by George and Lee; Dolohov fell with a scream at Flitwick’s hands; Walden Macnair was thrown across the room by Hagrid, hitting the stone wall opposite and sliding unconscious to the ground. He saw Ron and Neville blast their way through to a nearly-overwhelmed Goyle, and the three men formed a triangle, firing curses while protecting one another. Aberforth Stunned Rookwood; Arthur and Fred sent Thicknesse slamming into a pillar and onto the floor.

Draco was focused single-mindedly on his goal--but then he heard a shout, an agonizingly familiar voice crying out an equally beloved name, and he twisted to a halt, staring around wildly--and there were his parents.

Narcissa was struggling, seemingly trying only to get  _ out.  _ Lucius, in turn, was battling his way towards her, crying out her name and only firing spells for the purpose of forcing people out of his way as he tried to reach her. Draco hesitated, his all-consuming commitment to reaching and ending Riddle compromised by how  _ close _ they were. And in the madness reigning around them--surely he could--

Someone collided with him, and Draco bit back a yelp as he was nearly knocked off his feet, and the Cloak slipped off of his head. He grabbed at it helplessly, desperate not to lose his protection--

_ “Draco?” _

He froze, lifting his head as his gaze met his father’s. Lucius looked as if he wasn’t sure if he was seeing a ghost, or truly seeing his son, and he took an unsteady step towards Draco, who could not bring himself to drag the shimmering material of the Cloak back over himself even as the seconds ticking by endangered him more and more--if anyone else spotted him--

A jet of red light flew past him and struck his father in the side of the head.

_ “No--!”  _ Draco flung himself forward, barely clinging to the Cloak with grasping fingers as he reached Lucius’ side. He caught him as Lucius collapsed like dead weight, jerking wildly--he was still alive, he wasn’t yet--

“F-father,” Draco managed, and he felt no shame at how broken and whimpery his voice was. “No, fuck--please, no--”

“Draco,” Lucius sounded so faint. He stared at his son’s face as if he had never seen anything more beautiful, and lifted one violently shaking hand to brush Draco’s sweat- and blood-stickied hair back from his face. “My boy...you’re alive...”

A scream was heard, too close, jarring him. Draco yanked the Cloak over them both, not caring that it only covered their upper bodies--he just needed to keep his own face out of sight. Draco’s fingers were trembling as he checked his father’s head. He did not know what curse had struck him, and there was no clear wound that Draco could link to the strike that had felled him.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, and his own tears were falling over his father’s face, leaving semi-cleaner streaks through the dirt and grime that was marring Lucius’ skin. “I’m so sorry--I never wanted to, to make you and Mother think I was dead--I had no choice, I had to disappear--”

Lucius’ breath was shaky, sounding as though it was fading in the same way that Severus’ had, and Draco could not endure it. “You--you lived,” he whispered, and Draco’s heart constricted as he saw an almost-smile touch his father’s mouth. “You escaped...you escaped him.” His eyes widened slightly. “Dr-Draco, you, are you--”

“Yes,” he murmured, bending forward to press closer to Lucius, clutching at him as the battle waged around them, buffeting them. “Yes, Dad, I’m him--I’m the Dragon. I’m going to destroy him--I swear it--”

He felt his father’s hand stroke unsteadily through his hair; he was shaking harder, struggling not to lose his strength completely. “Draco...so...so proud. Of you...” Lucius dragged in a breath that was too faint, rattling unbearably. “F-find your mother...we love you...”

“No--Father, no--” An ugly cry, warped and raw, tore out of Draco as his father’s eyes fluttered closed, and did not re-open.

Gradually the sounds of the battle grew louder, forcing their way back into Draco’s awareness; he made himself look around, scrubbing a hand across his face to clear his vision of tears. He could no longer see his mother, and Draco could only pray with all his soul that she had found the means to exit the castle that she had been seeking before.  _ Let her be safe. Merlin, fuck, please--let her survive for me to find her again. _

Dragging himself upright, Draco secured the Cloak around himself again. He turned his back on his father’s body, fingers tightening around his wand until his knuckles went bone-white.

_ This ends now. _

Finally he found Riddle again; he was now dueling McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley all at once, and there was cold hatred in his face as they wove and ducked around him, unable to finish him off—

Bellatrix was still fighting too, fifty yards away from Voldemort, and like her master she dueled three at once: Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, all battling their hardest, but Bellatrix was more than a match for the three of them. Draco’s attention was torn away from Riddle at once, terror slicing through him as a Killing Curse shot so close to Hermione that she missed death by an inch.

He changed course, running at Bellatrix rather than Riddle. But before he had gone even a few steps, he was knocked sideways.  _ “Not my daughter, you bitch!” _

Molly Weasley threw off her cloak as she ran, freeing her arms and brandishing her wand. Bellatrix spun on the spot, roaring with laughter at the sight of her new challenger.  _ “Out of my way!” _ Molly shouted to the three girls, and with a swipe of her wand, she began to duel.

Draco stood frozen with terror and elation, watching in sheer amazement as Molly’s wand slashed and twirled. Within minutes Bellatrix’s smile faltered--very rapidly, it twisted and instead became a snarl. Jets of light flew from both wands, and the floor around the witches’ feet became hot and cracked; both women were fighting to kill.

“No!” Molly cried as a few students ran forward, trying to come to her aid. “Get back! Get back! She is mine!”

Hundreds of people now lined the walls, watching these two ultimate duels--Riddle and his three opponents, and Bellatrix versus Molly. Draco stood, invisible, torn between both, wanting to attack and yet to protect, unable to be sure that he would not hit the innocent.

“What will happen to your children when I’ve killed you?” Bellatrix taunted, every bit as mad as her master, capering as Molly’s curses danced around her. “When Mummy’s gone the same way as poor Percy?”

“You—will _ —never— _ touch—our—children—again!” Molly screamed; looking at her righteously furious expression, Draco had the sudden piercing realization that she was not only thinking of her boys, or Ginny. Molly was the mother-figure to so many more, including Luna, Hermione--and himself. She was not just battling in defense of her own brood, but to eliminate the madwoman who she knew had tortured and harmed  _ many _ of the younger ones she loved most.

Bellatrix laughed again, utterly maniacal and insane; and suddenly Draco knew what was going to happen before it did. Molly’s curse soared beneath Bellatrix’s outstretched arm and hit her squarely in the chest, directly over her heart. Bellatrix’s gloating smile froze, her eyes seemed to bulge; for the tiniest span of time she appeared to realize what had happened.

And then she toppled back, dead; the watching crowd roared in victory, and Riddle screamed with pure fury.

Draco felt as though he turned in slow motion; he saw McGonagall, Kingsley, and Slughorn all blasted backward, flailing and writhing through the air, as Riddle’s rage at the fall of his last, best lieutenant exploded with the force of a bomb. Riddle spun, raising his wand and directing it at Molly Weasley.

_ “Protego!”  _ Draco roared, and the Shield Charm expanded across the middle of the Hall. Riddle stared around for the source, and Draco pulled off the Invisibility Cloak at last.

Riddle froze where he stood, his red eyes latching at once onto Draco; he stared at him in stunned silence as Draco moved toward him, with nothing but air left between them. The crowd was afraid, and silence fell abruptly and completely as Voldemort and Draco looked at each other--and then began, at the same moment, to circle each other.

“For supposedly the most powerful sorcerer in the wizarding world, you never did seem to realize that ‘Dragon’ is just my name in English,” Draco said coldly. “You dumb fucker.”

“You are supposed to be dead,” Riddle hissed.

“So are you,” Draco pointed out. “But as you and I can both attest to, a true Slytherin can slither their way out of any kind of trouble.” Then, he raised his voice, keeping his eyes on Riddle, not daring to let the man out of his sight for even a second. “I don’t want anyone else to try and help. It’s going to be me.”

“You hid from me,” Riddle shot back. “You fled and you hid when I came for you. How can you tell them such lies?”

“Easily,” Draco replied. “I don’t. I speak the truth. It’s down to you and me, Riddle.”

The man bared his teeth. “You dare--”

“Yes, I dare. Tom Marvolo Riddle, descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself.” The look of brief alarm that spasmed over Riddle’s face made Draco smirk. “Oh, I know all about you, and your dirty little secrets. I even figured out why you hate Muggles so much. But your father never abandoned you, Tom. He didn’t even know you existed.”

“When he found out his wife was a witch, he left her!” Riddle snapped.

“Because she had him under a love potion for almost two years,” Draco retorted. “That’s essentially slavery, and worse. But what else would I expect from Slytherin’s family? Tom Riddle Sr. was right to leave when the love potion stopped working. He had every right to escape her. And you hate him because of your mother’s mistakes.”

“How--”

“Albus Dumbledore was quite an amazing teacher. And far more powerful than you could ever hope to be.”

“Dumbledore is dead,” Riddle shot back. “And so is Harry Potter. And soon, you will be as well.”

“Yes, they’re dead,” Draco agreed, his tone scornful. “I’m sure you’re incredibly proud of how you taunted, tortured, and brutally murdered a child in front of all your minions, miles away from the people who loved him. An incredible achievement, slaughtering an innocent boy for the ‘crime’ of surviving you.”

Riddle’s lip curled derisively. “Potter cost me a decade of my work--and for that, he was venerated into some sort of legendary  _ hero. _ He was treated as if he had accomplished some incomparable feat, when every moment of his continued existence was merely the result of  _ accidents.” _

“Accidents,” Draco repeated, and then he actually laughed; Riddle looked shocked and indignant at the sound. “It was no  _ accident, _ Tom, when his mother died to save him. Lily’s sacrifice protected him from you; the moment that you killed her, you damned your own fucking self.” They were still moving sideways, both of them, in a perfect circle, maintaining the same distance from each other. For Draco, no face existed but Riddle’s. “And over and over again--magic you could never understand protected him from you. His mother’s love in his very veins, he stopped you every year until you resorted to isolating him and beating him down with pain and abuse like the coward you are, and that’s the only reason you ever managed to kill him.”

“All accidents,” Riddle snarled again, but still he did not strike, and the watching crowd was frozen as if Petrified, and of the hundreds in the Great Hall, nobody seemed to breathe but they two. “Accident, and chance ,and the fact that he crouched and sniveled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them before I finally got him alone and  _ destroyed him.” _

“You won’t be killing anyone else,” Draco told him coldly as they circled, staring into each other’s eyes, grey locked on red. “You won’t be able to hurt any of these people ever again. I have been hunting you, taking down your defenses one by one, coming closer and closer to this exact moment--and I am going to end you, Riddle.”

Suddenly he grinned, and Draco couldn’t deny that it was satisfying to see how incensed Riddle became at seeing Draco look so completely unafraid and unimpressed by him. “And do you know what’s possibly the most humorous irony of it all? Every effort you’ve made to try and destroy those who oppose you, to further empower yourself--you’ve just continued to hand us weapons against you. Over and over again, you’ve crippled  _ yourself.” _

He yanked up his left sleeve, raising his arm so that the Dark Mark was visible, standing out vibrant and black against his pale flesh. “Harry may have died in the graveyard that night, but he’s never been completely gone. You, utter fucking idiot that you are--you used blood magic. You rebuilt your body  _ using Harry Potter’s blood;  _ you took it inside yourself.” Draco scoffed. “And then you forced your disgusting link upon me, branding me against my will--not that you knew that, of course--and with that, you  _ really _ fucked yourself over.”

Draco knew his grin was probably almost savage now, but he relished revealing all of this to Riddle at last. “You never did hear the entire prophecy that led to you choosing Harry, did you? Didn’t realize that by targeting him, you  _ made  _ him the one who could defeat you? Well, you did it yet again, Riddle.” He lowered his arm again, watching Riddle’s scarlet gaze track its downward motion. “You forced a connection between you and me--and you made me the Dragon. You  _ made me _ the man who was destined to defeat you once and for all.” He concluded with a smug chuckle. “You really just don’t learn from your mistakes, do you, Riddle?”

“You  _ dare—” _

“Yes, I dare,” Draco snapped impatiently, cutting him off again. “I know things you don’t know, Tom. I know lots of important things that you don’t. Want to hear some of it, before you make another big mistake?” Riddle did not speak, but prowled in a circle, and Draco knew that now he was keeping him temporarily mesmerized and at bay, held back by the faintest possibility that Draco might indeed know a final secret.

“Is it love again?” he asked, his snake’s face jeering. “Dumbledore’s favorite solution,  _ love,  _ which he claimed conquered death--though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out the Potters like cockroaches—and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?”

“Just one thing,” Draco said, and still they circled, wrapped up entirely in each other, held apart by nothing but one final last secret. He could not stop the smile that lingered on his face, cold and knowing. Draco had never felt more powerful in his entire life, and it was wonderful.

“If it is not love that will save you this time,” Riddle hissed, “Then you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?”

“I believe both,” Draco replied, and he saw shock flit across the snake-like face, though it was instantly dispelled. Riddle began to laugh, and the sound was more frightening than his screams; humorless and insane, it echoed around the silent hall.

“You think that you know more magic than I do?” he asked. “Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?”

“Oh, he dreamed of it,” Draco said dismissively. “But he knew more than you, knew enough not to do what you’ve done.”

“You mean he was weak!” Riddle snarled. “Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!”

“No, he was cleverer than you,” Draco corrected him. “A better wizard, and a far better man.”

“I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!”

“You thought you did,” Draco said, “But you were wrong.”

For the first time, the watching crowd stirred as the hundreds of people around the walls drew breath as one. “Dumbledore is dead!” Riddle hurled the words at Draco as though they would cause him unendurable pain. “His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle. I have seen it,  _ Dragon, _ he will not return to save you!”

“Yes, Dumbledore is dead,” Draco retorted calmly. “But  _ you _ didn’t have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died; he arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your most faithful servant.”

“What childish dream is this?” Riddle demanded--but still he did not strike, and his red eyes did not waver from Draco’s face.

“Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” Draco told him. “Severus was Dumbledore’s man, Dumbledore’s from the moment you started hunting down Lily Potter. And you never realized it, because of the one thing you can’t understand. You never saw Severus cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?”

Riddle did not answer. They continued their circling like wolves about to tear each other apart. “His Patronus was a doe,” Draco told him. “The same as Lily Potter’s had been, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realized,” he added, when he saw Riddle’s nostrils flare. “He asked you to spare her life, didn’t he?”

“He desired her, that was all,” Riddle sneered, “But when she was gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him—”

“Of course he told you that,” Draco scoffed. “But he was Dumbledore’s spy from the first moment you threatened her, and he worked against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him--on  _ his _ orders.”

“It matters not!” Riddle shrieked, who had followed every word with rapt attention, but now let out a cackle of mad laughter. “It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore’s, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed her, Snape’s supposed great love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Dragon, and in ways that you do not understand! Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me--he intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand!”

He held up the wand itself, and for the first time since Dumbledore’s death, Draco got a good look at the wand that belonged to him, and not to the monster who brandished it as if it was evidence of his guaranteed victory. “But I got there ahead of you, little boy,” Riddle went on. “I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it. I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape not three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore’s last plan went wrong, Dragon!”

Draco stared at Riddle, raising his eyebrows, before he allowed himself to laugh yet again. Riddle faltered slightly, obviously having not expected the blonde to be in fits over this revelation. “You continue to laugh when I’m about to kill you? You are minutes from  _ death, _ boy!”

“I’m laughing because you’re stupid,” Draco shot back. “Severus killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore’s orders. And I know you killed Severus; I was right there, hidden away and watching.” He took a breath, because all of the hatred and grief that he wanted to channel against Riddle for taking Severus from him was fresh and raw. “But I figured out long before you, something that you still don’t know, and didn’t care to know, because your ambitions blinded you so much that you messed up the basic laws of wand-lore and wand allegiance.”

“And what would that be?” Riddle demanded, gritting his teeth so hard Draco wondered just how much pressure would be needed to crack the enamel.

“The Elder Wand is  _ mine,” _ Draco announced, his voice ringing through the silence of the crowded Great Hall. Everyone’s eyes were locked upon them, waiting with bated breath. “The Black family is descended from the first Peverell brother. If that Wand had been handed down the way it should have been, it would have belonged to me sooner or later; Dumbledore realized that, and he formed another plan in order to right that wrong. Just one more stroke of genius before he died. Severus killed him, yes...but killing him didn’t make Severus the master of the Elder Wand.”

He raised his own wand then, the dark hawthorn wood gleaming under the pale dawn of morning as the sun started to crest above the horizon. “I disarmed Dumbledore that night,” he said, “Again, on Dumbledore’s order. In a very roundabout way, he brought the Wand back in my possession. That’s why it doesn’t work for you. That’s why it will never yield or recognize you as its Master. Your spells have been failing for the past several hours--hadn't you noticed how none of the spells you put on these people were binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them.”

He raised his chin defiantly, glaring back at Riddle. “The Elder Wand belongs to me. And I want it back, Tom.”

Riddle’s eyes were nearly cat-like in effect, his pupils contracting to thin slits, and the skin around his eyes whitened. “You are a foolish child,” he snarled.

“No,” Draco said calmly. “I’m a man, and a far better one than you could ever be. And you know what’s sad? I think Harry Potter would have given you a second chance, and shown you some mercy, because that’s the kind of person he would have grown to be. Me, on the other hand? I know you don’t deserve mercy. You feel nothing. You are incapable of feeling anything other than greed. So, my only version of mercy will be giving you a quick death before I take my wand back.”

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them, as an edge of equally dazzling light appeared over the sill of the nearest window; the sun was rising. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Riddle’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Draco heard the high voice shout, and suddenly he thought once more of Harry Potter.

It was as if, for a single heartbeat, he could feel the lost Gryffindor standing at his side--and Draco smiled as he yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing his wand at their enemy and letting Harry guide his voice.

_ “Avada Kedavra!” _

_ “Expelliarmus!” _

The bang was like a cannon blast--and suddenly golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle that they had been treading, marking the point where the spells collided.

Draco saw Riddle’s green jet of light meet his own spell, and suddenly his wand was vibrating as though an electric charge were surging through it. His hand seized up around it; he couldn’t have released it if he’d wanted to—and then a narrow beam of light appeared between the two wands, connecting them, neither red nor green, but deep, bright gold.

Then the golden thread splintered; a thousand more beams arced high over Draco and Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light; an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air, coming from every thread of the light-spun web vibrating around them, and Draco recognized it at once: phoenix song.

It was as if the air itself exploded, and Draco had the distinct feeling of being flung off of his feet even as he simultaneously still felt the solid floor of the Great Hall beneath him.

And then suddenly, all that Draco was listening to was silence.

He blinked, finding that his eyes had been closed; looking around, he saw that he was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching; nobody else was even there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.

A long time later--or maybe no time at all--it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was definitely lying on a flat, cool surface. Therefore he had a sense of touch, and the thing on which he lay existed too. He was enveloped by a bright mist, though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before; his surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor, but rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a blank something on which to be.

Draco sat up. His body seemed to be unscathed; he touched his face and found that he could not feel any blood or dirt, or even the slight unevenness of the scar that should have been over his right eye. He stood up slowly, looking around; and the longer he looked, the more there was to see. A great domed glass roof glittered high above, sunlight streaming beautifully down upon him. All was hushed and still.

Draco turned slowly on the spot, and his environment continued to invent itself before his eyes. A wide-open space, bright and clean, larger by far than the Great Hall, all of it covered with that clear, domed glass ceiling. It was quite empty. He was the only person there, except for—

_ Harry Potter. _

Draco went utterly still, staring in raw disbelief at the slender figure now standing just a stone’s throw away from him.

He looked exactly how Draco last remembered seeing him, in life--small and just a little gangly, not yet fully in command of his limbs as he transitioned from childhood into adulthood. His hair was an absolute disaster, thick and unruly and looking as though it would make a sentient comb weep; and behind those familiar, round black glasses, wide, old-before-their-time green eyes gazed back at Draco solemnly.

Harry did not appear at all surprised to see him. He was dressed, Draco noticed with a pang, in his Triwizard uniform, the Gryffindor colors as well-suited as ever against his lovely olive skin.

“Potter?”

The smaller boy--sweet Merlin, had he always been that  _ tiny? _ Had  _ Draco _ been that small, ever?--smiled a little, nodding. “Malfoy.”

“But you’re--you’re dead.”

Harry nodded again, raising his eyebrows as if to say,  _ Obviously.  _ “Yes, I definitely am.”

“Then...then does that mean that I’m dead, too?” Draco frowned. “I shouldn’t be, that...wasn’t how that was supposed to go. The wand should have yielded to me.”

“It did.” He looked back at Harry, who smiled at him more warmly, reassuringly. “You’re not dead, don’t worry. But you were in a bit of a strange situation, weren’t you? Both wands belonged to you, and one was being used to try and kill you. The Elder Wand’s probably the one that sent you here. To see me, maybe.”

Draco blinked at that, looking around at their surreal, indistinct surroundings yet again. “But then...where the hell are we?”

“I was going to ask you that,” Harry admitted, grinning a little as he, too, looked around with interest. “Where do you think we are?”

Draco opened his mouth to say that he seriously had no idea; but then, suddenly, he found that he had an answer ready to give. “It looks to me like King’s Cross station,” he remarked. “Except a lot cleaner, and empty, which...never happens. And there are no trains...” As he said that, Draco now saw the tracks a good way away, but they were presently unoccupied.

“King’s Cross station?” Harry nodded, looking around as if now he could now see that clearly as well. “Huh. All this time I’ve been here, I never saw it that way. But I think you’re right.”

Draco’s stomach plunged, horror churning like icy blades in his gut. “What--you’ve--you’ve been  _ here, _ in this empty space, all this time?”

“Hm? Oh, no--I mean, well, yes,” Harry said, laughing when he saw the confusion his reply caused. “I’ve been here, in this...limbo space, whatever it is, yes. Just because I wasn’t sure where to go next--which train to take, I reckon, now that I know it’s a station.” He shrugged, turning and walking over to a bench that Draco only then noticed, and taking a seat. “But maybe there weren’t trains till you got here. I think right now, this is your version of this place.”

Frowning, Draco moved to join him on the bench, continuing to look around thoughtfully as more small, inconsequential details filled themselves in around the station platform.

“Have you been alone the entire time?” he asked, struck by worry over the thought. “I mean--it’s been three years since you died, Harry.”

The forever-fourteen-year-old looked over at him, surprised and pleased. “Oh, first names now, huh? Good, I like that much better. But, uh, I don’t think time works the same way here, Draco.” He beamed at saying the name, as if he’d been waiting since they had first met seven years before to address Draco that way, and it made the blonde’s heart ache. “I mean, maybe it has been three normal years--but I don’t remember that. I just know I’ve been here waiting.”

He gestured behind them, and now Draco saw more of the station, so brightly illuminated that it seemed to fade into non-visibility the farther he looked. “I’ve been with my parents, too,” Harry told him, and Draco looked back at him sharply. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s next--afterlife-wise, I mean--but they’ve come to see me here. I’ve gotten to spend so much time with them, making up for everything we lost.”

“Everything that  _ Riddle _ took from you.” Draco’s jaw clenched. “You should have had a completely normal life--comfortable, easy, with your parents there. You could’ve had siblings, you could’ve been a perfectly normal kid coming to Hogwarts. But he destroyed your family.”

Draco looked down, shame darkening his voice. “And mine supported him, all that time. My parents--my father, at least--followed him willingly. Hell, maybe he even helped to find where your family was hiding.” Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know I was a baby, same as you were, but...I feel tainted by knowing who my family is. I feel the weight of how responsible we were--the Malfoys, and all the rest of the Death Eaters--for your murders. And so many more...”

“As far as I’m aware,  _ you _ ’ _ ve  _ only ended one life--and I’d say we both agree that Voldemort deserved that,” Harry remarked. “No idea who tracked my parents down, way back when--other than that Pettigrew betrayed ‘em.” He frowned. “He’s dead too, isn’t he? I think I felt that happen.”

“Yes.” Draco did not want to tell the fourteen-year-old beside him about that night. “He’s dead.” Then he smiled faintly. “But the others aren’t. Sirius, and Remus--most of the Weasleys--so many of the people who fought Riddle before, and have since...since losing you.”

“Good.” Harry nodded, looking pleased. “And now they’re your family, too, right?” When Draco blushed and nodded back, Harry looked even more content. “Very good.”

They were quiet for a moment, and then Draco frowned again. “Wait--you said you felt it when Wormtail died.” Harry nodded, looking like he wasn’t terribly sad about that. “Did you...I mean, do you feel every death? You know everyone who’s fallen since you were killed?”

Harry considered that question carefully. “I think...yes and no,” he said slowly. “It depends on who they were, if I knew them, I think.” He smiled a bit sadly. “Maybe it’s just the ones that I had strong emotions about. I felt Dumbledore, that’s for sure.” Draco couldn’t speak, wondering how the boy beside him had handled that. Harry did not comment on it further. “I felt Pettigrew because he made me so...angry. My dad felt him, too.” Harry shrugged. “We didn’t try to look for him.”

Harry started swinging his legs, and it made him look so agonizingly small and young that it physically hurt Draco. “Felt Dobby,” Harry added, and Draco inhaled sharply. “I’m glad that he--that you could be there with him.”

“We buried him in Bill and Fleur Weasley’s garden.”

Harry looked up, smiling. “Oh, yeah--that was funny to me, Bill marrying Fleur. I mean, I only knew her from the Tournament. But that was pretty cool.” Harry paused, then put a hand over his own heart. “Felt a lot of them today. I know...I know plenty of our classmates stayed to fight with you. I hope that they find as much peace on this side as I have.”

Draco closed his eyes, momentarily rendered speechless at the reassurance that Harry truly felt that he had peace on this side of existence.

“I felt Voldemort.”

Startling, Draco looked at Harry again with wide eyes. Harry was still covering his chest, and now there was a look on his face that Draco couldn’t interpret. “You did it, Draco, that I know--he is dead.” He swallowed hard. “I realized something since being here...well. I started wondering, I guess is the better way to say it. And, uh...I actually found Dumbledore, when he died. And he confirmed it for me.”

“Confirmed what?” Draco asked, feeling a little lightheaded at the sensation that he was about to learn one more shocking puzzle piece--one that he hadn’t even known was missing.

Harry looked up at him again, green eyes huge in his handsome young face. “You figured out all that stuff--the things about my mum’s death creating blood-bound protection for me, and everything?” Draco nodded, and Harry smiled tremulously. “Turns out that when he killed her, and then I survived...he broke off one last bit of his soul.” Harry tapped a fingertip over where his heart was. “I was a Horcrux, Draco.”

For a moment, Draco’s head spun, and he almost couldn’t breathe. “You were--you mean--”

“I think it’s why I came here--and I’ve been able to see people, and talk to my parents and others as they come through, but I didn’t immediately go to where they were,” Harry said, and now he was talking faster, like he’d been waiting forever to explain all of this. “When he killed me, I did die--I’m dead, there’s no changing that. But he killed the soul bit, too!”

Harry grinned at him. “And then you--you finished it off. You got rid of the rest of them, and then you faced him. You finished the job for me.” He sat up a little straighter, and Draco was starkly reminded of the fiery-eyed little boy who had constantly glared defiantly back at him, always ready to bicker and banter, always making Draco feel challenged--both for better or for worse. “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco stared at him for a long moment, seeing so much more in Harry’s impossibly young face than he ever had before. Those eyes, certainly; now that he had seen Severus’ memories of Lily Potter, Draco absolutely saw that Harry had inherited them right down to the shape and the sweep of his lashes. But he also saw James Potter in those features--and Merlin, Draco could see so many more. Harry had traces of the Weasleys, who had loved him as a son, and of Hermione and all his Gryffindor peers.

He was beautiful, young and pure and immortalized as the hero he had been. Death did not change who he was, and Draco felt breathless as he gazed at the Boy Who Lived.

It was all over now.

That realization settled over Draco, warm and comforting and more surreal than he’d expected--he had been striving towards this for so fucking long. It was almost impossible to believe that it was truly time. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, and then Draco drew a deep breath. “I suppose I’ve got to go back now.”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, I reckon they’ll all be waiting eagerly to celebrate. You did just save the world, after all.” He looked up at Draco again, his face shining. “By the way, good choice of girlfriends.” Draco snorted a laugh, and Harry grinned knowingly. “I’m serious. You’ve been good to my best friends, and I appreciate it. Take care of them for me, please?”

“Of course I will.” Draco swallowed, looking around at the still empty station. “What’s going to happen to you when I leave?”

Harry shrugged, standing up; Draco followed him. “I’m going to be fine, of course. Reckon now I don’t need to wait anymore--I s’pose I can go with my parents now.”

“How would you--”

“Easy. We’re in King’s Cross Station, right? I just have to board a train.”

“And where will it take you?” Draco asked; even as he asked, he suddenly realized that now there  _ was _ a train, the tracks no longer empty. It was the same model as the Hogwarts Express, but simply sleek and silver all over, and smoke billowed quietly from it as it warmed up in preparation for departure.

“On,” Harry replied simply. He waved at someone behind Draco; when the blonde turned, surprised, he saw that there were two figures now making their way along the platform towards the younger men. They were still a substantial ways away, but he knew without a fraction of a doubt that he was looking at James and Lily, coming to collect their son for his final journey forward.

“You know,” Harry said. “For the record, I never really hated you.”

Draco turned back to him, and he found nothing but warm sincerity. “I never really hated you either,” he admitted. “You were one of the few people in the entire castle who challenged me. I guess I always just had to bait you.”

“And I always rose to the bait.” Harry laughed a little. “If we ever got our heads out of our arses, we could have taken Hogwarts by storm.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Draco gave out a playfully put-upon sigh. “Saint Potter is right, as always.”

Harry gave him that grin again, all alight with mischief and warmth, before he held out his hand. “I think it’s best if we start over,” he suggested, “Here in the end of it all. You don’t want to go around falling in with the wrong sorts, after all.”

The moment was so unexpected, and yet somehow so right, that Draco laughed helplessly, reaching out to clasp the other boy’s hand firmly. “I think I figured out the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” he replied, grinning. “Take care, Scarhead.”

“You too, Ferret.”

As Draco spluttered a laugh at that--he couldn’t even be offended, really, much as he still despised that memory--Harry gave him a last little smile and a tiny wave. Then he turned away, and suddenly Draco noticed that he was no longer dressed in the Triwizard uniform. Harry slid his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he now wore over his jeans, scuffed trainers on his feet as he walked to meet his parents near the front-most car of the train. The two adults greeted him with hugs, his father ruffling the dark hair that was as chaotic as his.

James gave his wife his hand, helping her step up into the train, and then he boarded as well. Harry went last, then paused, leaning out of the open door as the train gave a cheery whistle, and the smoke increased. The wheels squealed and began to roll, and Draco watched as Harry beamed back at him, waving with the same kind of enthusiasm that was always seen in first years as they rode the Hogwarts Express for their first time--excited to go, sorry to leave their families, but desperately ready for the new adventure that they were launching into.

Draco raised his hand in return. And then, as the train picked up speed and Harry withdrew into the safety of the boxcar, the sunlight overhead seemed to brighten impossibly. Draco closed his eyes, feeling its heat washing soothingly over him, and once more he felt himself being carried away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more....and then spin-offs! A sort-of sequel, and some time stamps, all coming your way. :D


	46. I Could Give You My Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with life and light.”

The golden thread broke. The cage of light vanished, and the phoenix song died.

Draco crashed back into himself, his body feeling jarringly more solid and tangible after the surreal and whimsical dreamscape that he had been in with Harry. He had no idea how long he had been in there for--but now, back in living, breathing reality, it was clearly the exact same instant that he had left behind.

His hand dropped, still gripping his hawthorn wand securely. Draco watched as the Elder Wand flew high into the air, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like Nagini’s head had, spinning through the air toward the master who it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last.

And Draco, with the unerring skill of a Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Lord Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, felled by his own arrogance and hatred; and Draco stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.

There was one shivering second of silence, the shock of the moment suspended.

And then the tumult broke around Draco, the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rending the air. The fierce new sun dazzled the windows as everyone thundered towards him at once.

The first to reach him, of course, were Ron and Hermione, and both of their arms wrapped around him tightly, their voices nearly incoherent as they spoke in tandem. “--so scared--” “--didn’t know where you went, thought somehow he’d killed you--” “-- _we did it--”_

Draco welcomed the dual hug, but then another body collided with their group--he recognized Pansy’s shriek of joy, and Draco could not even tell if she was trying to hug him first, or Ron, or both at once--and he wrestled his way free from the tangle of limbs, twisting to get his arms solely around Hermione’s waist. Draco lifted her right off of her feet as she let out a gasp of laughter, which he silenced by pressing his mouth against hers in a hard, searing kiss, pouring all of his relief and joy and love into that one touch.

Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna were there as well, and Draco allowed them to tug at him enough to separate his mouth from Hermione’s; Pansy had wrapped herself around Ron similarly, and Draco grinned at the absolutely gobsmacked look on the redhead’s face when their kiss broke as well.

The rest of the Weasleys crashed down upon him next, and Hagrid, and Kingsley and McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and Draco couldn’t actually make out a word that anyone was shouting, nor tell whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in, all of them determined to touch the Dragon, the reason it was over at last.

The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with life and light.

Draco was an indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration, and he could accept that right then. They all wanted him there with them, their leader and symbol, their savior and their guide. Now, with nothing left to panic over or be afraid of, nothing that he had to hide from or figure out, Draco was able to take on this step.

He must speak to the bereaved--to clasp their hands, witness their tears, receive their thanks--and stand with the Order members to hear the news that was now creeping in from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the Imperiused up and down the country had come back to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban were being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of Magic...

They moved Voldemort’s body and laid it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of their families and friends and loved ones, who had died fighting him.

He didn’t know how long he had been surrounded by people, talking to them or comforting them or just celebrating with them, before he finally had to take a step back to catch his breath. Hermione more than understood, releasing his hand to let him wander. Draco made his way along through the crowd, occasionally returning waves that were sent his way.

Then he looked up towards the door of the Great Hall, and balked.

Narcissa stood in the doorway; her dress was torn, her normally perfectly-combed hair was tangled and there was a significant cut running along her cheek, though the blood had already begun to dry. Her blue eyes locked onto him just as Lucius’ had, as if she wasn’t sure if she was seeing a ghost or the real sight of her son being alive; but then her eyes slowly filled with tears, and he could see her lips forming his name.

Draco didn’t realize he had started moving until he already was, running for her, and the instant her arms were around him he nearly collapsed, the weight of everything--the months of wandering and hiding, the skirmish back at the Manor, the Gringotts break-in, the last battle--finally crashing into him and he dissolved into tears.

“I’m sorry!” he gasped. “I’m so sorry--”

“Don’t you _ever_ apologize!” She pulled back then, reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. Tears were sliding down her face as well, but she looked absolutely breathtaking in her happiness. “My boy, look at you! Look at what you accomplished! I don’t think I could possibly be more proud.”

“I made you think I was dead,” he said shakily. “I can never apologize enough.”

“But you _live,”_ she said fiercely. “That is enough for the rest of my life. I will never lose you again.”

He clung to her for a few moments longer, melting under the soothing sensation of her familiar hands petting through his hair tenderly. Then Draco drew back, taking several steadying breaths and smiling at her tearfully. Narcissa cradled his cheek, and then her smile turned a little coy and knowing--Draco knew that look well. It guaranteed that he was going to blush at whatever his mother was about to tease him for.

“I presume that that lovely young woman did not kiss you that passionately out of _platonic_ appreciation for your actions, did she?”

Draco grinned, feeling his face warm a little. “Ah...no, no, she certainly didn’t. Though actually I think _I_ kissed her, in this instance...” Taking his mother’s hand, Draco turned around, scanning until he found his lover; she was talking and laughing with Ginny and Luna, who were holding onto each other just as fiercely as Ron and Pansy were, a short distance away, sitting with Theo and Blaise and Goyle.

Hermione caught his eye, and then stilled when she saw his mother at his side. When Draco beckoned, she excused herself from the other girls, making her way slowly over to him. Draco released his mother’s hand to take hers, lifting it to his lips and--Merlin, he would _never_ tire of it--chuckling when Hermione blushed prettily for him.

“Mother...you know Hermione Granger,” he said, looking back at Narcissa. “But now I’d like to introduce her as...as my girlfriend. We’ve been together since early last year.”

“Longer than that, really, but it took us some time to get ourselves sorted,” Hermione remarked, smiling shakily. She was looking at Narcissa with mingled nervousness and hope, biting at her bottom lip uncertainly.

Narcissa was looking at her with wide, sad eyes; her gaze flickered to Hermione’s left arm and then back to her face, and Draco knew that she was remembering her sister’s brutality toward the younger witch, back in the drawing room of her own house. “Mother?”

She inhaled, composing herself; and then Narcissa shocked her son completely by stepping forward, drawing Hermione into a gentle embrace.

“My son has only ever exhibited excellent taste,” she murmured, drawing back to cup Hermione’s face between her palms, smiling at her softly. “I could know nothing at all about you and yet, I would know that you are a truly worthwhile and special person, if he loves you.” Her eyes dimmed a little. “I can only hope to begin to earn your forgiveness for the treatment that you have endured at the hands of my family in the past--”

“You have it already,” Hermione interrupted her, shaking her head. “You’re right about your son--and I know how fiercely and deeply he loves you.” She smiled over at Draco, who was watching this moment between his mother and lover as if he didn’t know if it was real. “The hurts of the past are just that--they’re behind us, now.”

McGonagall had replaced the tables in the Great Hall by now; but nobody was sitting according to House. All were jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house elves, and Firenze lay recovering in a corner, while Grawp peered in through a smashed window, and people were throwing snacks into his laughing mouth. Food had been produced onto the tables, more substantial than the light provisions that had been distributed during the battle; there was a general air of revelry despite the exhaustion that everyone felt.

Draco was sitting with his friends and his mother, leaning against Hermione’s knees and slowly drinking a goblet of something that Madam Pomfrey had sent over--it was tea-like, and very revitalizing--when he saw a very familiar figure come into the Great Hall with the tiny figure of a baby balanced on her hip.

Remus and Tonks saw Andromeda with their son seconds after Draco did, and he watched, smiling, as they bolted from Sirius and Kingsley’s sides to ambush her in an embrace, kissing the turquoise-haired infant’s ruddy cheeks and weeping with joy.

“Is...is that...” Draco looked at his mother, and saw that she was staring, wide-eyed and pale, at her sister standing there with her little family.

“Come on,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and taking her hand once more. “Come meet your niece. And nephew-in-law, and great-nephew.” As they approached, Andromeda looked up from laughing at Teddy’s flailing hands; when she saw Narcissa, she gasped aloud.

Tonks took the baby gently, and Andromeda took one slow, shaky step forward.

And then she and Narcissa fell into each other’s arms, both sobbing unrestrainedly. Draco moved to his cousin’s side, playing with little Teddy’s chubby fingers fondly as his mother and aunt reunited at last.

He did not keep track of the hours that passed in celebration; as the sun rolled through the sky, things continued proceeding at a leisurely pace. At some point, a corner of the Great Hall was filled with sleeping bags and bedding so that anyone who was overcome with weariness could rest without having to depart from this hub of celebration, if they did not wish to. Some of the injured, at Madam Pomfrey’s insistence, were escorted to the nearest functioning fireplace--Severus’ old office in the dungeons, Draco had realized with a jolt--and taken carefully to St. Mungo’s for more thorough medical attention.

After a while, exhausted and drained past even the best of his determination to be present and accessible to his people, Draco found himself sitting on a bench beside Luna. “I’d want some peace and quiet by now, if it were me,” she mused, smiling knowingly at him.

“I’d love some,” he replied.

Luna patted his knee fondly. “I’ll distract them all,” she promised. “Use the Cloak.” And before he could say a word back, she had cried, “Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” and pointed out of the window. Everyone who heard her looked around in confusion, and Draco smiled, sliding the Cloak over himself, and getting to his feet.

He passed Sirius, sitting with the Tonks-Lupin family and Narcissa; his mother was amusing Teddy, and Sirius was gently petting Buckbeak as he watched their mixed little family.

Draco saw Neville, the sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he ate, surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers and regaling them with tales of his various rebellions against the Carrows, over the course of the past year. He couldn’t help but notice that Hannah Abbot was sitting a bit closer to him than necessary, looking at him with starry eyes.

Everywhere he looked, Draco saw families reunited and friends clinging to one another; and finally, he found the two whose company he craved most. “It’s me,” he murmured, crouching down between them. “Will you come with me?” They stood up at once, and together he, Ron, and Hermione left the Great Hall. As soon as they were out of sight, Draco pulled the Cloak off again.

Great chunks were missing from the marble staircase, part of the balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains occurred every few steps as they climbed. Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song, clearly of his own composition:

_“We did it, we bashed them,_

_The Dragon’s the one,_

_And Voldy’s gone moldy,_

_so now let’s have fun!”_

“Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn’t it?” Ron asked, chuckling tiredly as he pushed open a door to let Draco and Hermione through ahead of him.

Happiness would come, Draco thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion; and the pain of the terrible, steep losses that they had suffered pierced him like a physical wound every few steps. Most of all, though, he felt the most stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep.

But first he owed an explanation to Ron and Hermione, who had stuck with him for so long, and who deserved the truth. As they walked, he recounted the contents of the memories that Severus had shared with him before dying. The two Gryffindors had not even begun to express all their shock and amazement--“Snape was in love with Harry’s _mum?_ That’s just fucking _bizarre...”_ \--when at last they arrived at the place to which they had been walking all along, though none of them had mentioned their destination.

Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and Draco wondered whether it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore. “Can we go up?” he asked the gargoyle.

“Feel free,” groaned the statue. They clambered over him and onto the spiral stone staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator. Draco pushed open the door at the top, and the trio stepped inside. He had one, brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve back in its usual place on the desk--and then he jumped as a shocking wave of applause suddenly thundered down all around them.

All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts’ history were giving them a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they reached through their frames to grip each other’s hands; they danced up and down on the chairs in which they had been painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, “And let it be noted that he is of Slytherin House! From _my_ bloodline! Let that not be forgotten!”

But Draco had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait, directly behind the Headmaster’s chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled Draco with the same balm as phoenix song.

After allowing the applause and cheering for a few minutes, Draco finally held up his hands, and the portraits fell respectfully silent, beaming and mopping their eyes and waiting eagerly for him to speak.

“When I last left this room, I left an item in Severus’ care,” he said quietly, and Dumbledore nodded to indicate his understanding. “He managed to convey to me what he did with it, and I assume it’s unanimously agreed-upon that that can be the end of that.” Dumbledore tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial manner, nodding sagely at Draco.

Next he pulled out the Cloak. “As for this...there are no more Potters, but there are still Peverells--sort of.” Draco smiled faintly. “Unless there's any objection...”

“It is yours to keep,” Dumbledore affirmed warmly. “In your care it will remain with the family of its legacy--and the only others as worthy of it are standing beside you. I am quite certain that the three of you will manage.” Draco grinned and nodded, letting Hermione take the Cloak from him gently and work it into the beaded bag, still hanging from her shoulder.

“And then there’s this.” Draco held up the Elder Wand. “It yields to me--by inheritance, and by circumstance.” He looked up, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes again solemnly. “I intend to ensure that its power--its history--stops with me. I will be the last master of the Elder Wand.”

He took out his own hawthorn wand, regarding the two side by side in his hands. “I had thought to...to put it back where it was,” he went on, returning his gaze to Dumbledore once more. “But there’s no guarantee that someone else won’t try to do what Riddle did.” He smiled, a little crookedly. “I have...a place in mind. Somewhere safe, somewhere no one would disturb it again. If you agree, I’d like to put it there--and it can stay there. If I die a natural death like Antioch’s brother Ignotus, its power will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it, for good this time.”

Dumbledore nodded, smiling down at Draco with fresh tears in his eyes. “Yes, my dear boy. I believe that is the perfect solution. The Elder Wand, for what few and far-in-between good seasons it has had throughout the centuries, has ultimately been far more trouble than it is worth.”

“Exactly.” Draco grinned, pocketing both wands for now, and taking Hermione’s hand as they turned away from the painted portraits back towards the study door. Ron followed behind them, subtly flipping Phineas a two-fingered salute as the man spluttered something about _how un-Slytherin-like_ Draco’s behavior was.

“And quite honestly,” Draco added, now thinking very longingly of the impossibly soft beds that were sure to be waiting for them all back at the Burrow. “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.”

* * *

**_One Month Later_ **

Godric’s Hollow was not a very large village. A respectable handful of wizarding families were its primary population; some had kept homes there throughout the generations, from their earliest members, while others were newer, younger lineages that settled there for its peaceful, quiet atmosphere. It did experience some tourism; it was founded and named for one of Britain’s most famous wizards, after all, and it had been home to many more iconic historical figures after Gryffindor’s time, as well.

It had seen a particularly large surge of visitors all at one time only once before; in November of 1981, when witches and wizards from all over the globe had come together to transform the ruined Potter home into a memorial, and to hold vigil for the losses of James and Lily Potter, and in celebration of little Harry’s survival.

In June of 1998, once again, Godric’s Hollow met an influx of visitors and mourners, though not nearly as many this time. Draco, Hermione, and Ron had worked diligently to ensure that for this event, the only people who knew were the ones that they wanted present.

Only those who had known and loved Harry Potter were invited to join them for his second, far more formal, funeral.

Outside the gate of the little cemetery behind the tiny stone church, Draco stood in a black suit, watching the others arriving. The Weasleys were already there with him, along with Sirius; this was the closest to blood family that they could represent for Harry. For Draco’s sake--and, really, for Sirius’ as well--his family was there as well; Narcissa, standing with Andromeda, along with Tonks and Remus and little Teddy, looking very handsome in brand-new black robes.

Gradually more arrived. Many of Harry’s Gryffindor Housemates--those who had followed Draco, Ron, and Hermione in the D.A.--and a good handful, too, of Ravenclaws, Slytherins, and Hufflepuffs. The professors of Hogwarts; Tom from the Leaky Cauldron, and Madam Rosmerta and Aberforth Dumbledore from Hogsmeade. Kingsley, Doge, and the rest of the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix.

The ceremony itself was simple. At Draco’s request, Professor McGonagall presided over it; but she spoke minimally, because there were many people ready and deserving to deliver eulogies. One by one, Harry’s family spoke to his memory--Sirius, Ron and Hermione, Arthur and Molly, Remus...and lastly, Draco.

He did not speak long, because in truth, so much of what he had to say had been covered already, or it was for Harry alone.

The summer day was pleasantly warm and mild, so they were able to have a brief reception afterwards that did not require retreating indoors; they grouped together in the village square, and the owner of a small wizarding cafe on the corner opened her patio to them to provide some seating, as well as food and drink as everyone socialized quietly, reminiscing about the Potter family.

As the sun began to descend in the sky, slowly the guests began to exchange farewells and depart. Draco remained sitting to one side with Ron and Hermione; the three of them had already established that they would be the very last to leave.

Eventually, only the Weasleys and Sirius remained, and they gave each of the trio final embraces before preparing to Apparate home to the Burrow. Sirius, like Draco, was staying there until they had done some deep, thorough renovations to turn Grimmauld Place into a proper home. “I’ll leave the kitchen light on,” Molly promised, kissing each of their cheeks before heading off to join Arthur.

Alone, the three of them finished their whiskeys, paid the bill, and then returned to the cemetery just as the church’s outdoor lamps began to glow. Soft, warm light spilled across the grassy little graveyard, and together--Hermione in the middle, holding each of the men’s hands in hers--they made their way down the rows back to the stone bearing all three Potters’ names.

They had found the now-withered wreath of Christmas roses that Hermione had placed still there when they’d first arrived, and she had replaced that with a fresh circlet of pale-colored, lovely spring blossoms.

Ron stepped forward first, sinking into a crouch and reaching out to lightly touch the somewhat elevated point right at the base, where Draco had buried Harry six months before. “I’m sorry I wasn’t with them that night,” the ginger whispered. “You know me, mate--sometimes I can be a right foul git.” He smiled faintly. “As usual, it was all alright, once we figured it out.”

He stood back up, and Draco cleared his throat softly; Ron and Hermione looked to him, and he drew a small breath. “I told you both that--that when we fired our spells, me and Riddle, I experienced a sort of vision before ‘waking up’ again, and seeing that I’d--I’d beaten him?”

They both nodded, eyebrows rising, and Draco swallowed. “I saw Harry.” Both inhaled sharply, but did not interrupt him; Draco pushed his hands into his jacket pocket, eyes on Harry’s name etched on the marker in his own handwriting as he spoke. “Not sure how long I was with him--obviously not even a full second passed, where we were in the Great Hall. But we...he and I, we spoke.”

Slowly he shared with them the conversation that he and Harry had enjoyed; long before Draco summarized seeing Lily and James come to take their son on with them, both Ron and Hermione had tears sliding soundlessly down their cheeks. When Draco mentioned Harry’s cheeky little callback to their first-ever meeting, Ron made a noise like a strangled laugh--he had been right beside Harry at the time, after all, and it had been Draco’s scorn towards _him_ that had provoked Harry to defensiveness against Draco. Hermione leaned against her best friend, hugging him tightly with one arm.

“He asked me to take care of you two for him,” Draco concluded, smiling faintly. “And of course, I fully intend to do so.”

“Let’s make that a shared responsibility, eh?” Ron asked teasingly, though his voice was thick with emotion. “No offense, mate, you know that I love you, but I don’t need another parent. Already in over my head being in love with Pans.”

All three of them chuckled appreciatively at that.

“There’s, uh, there’s one last thing I need to do before we head home,” Draco added, and both of them looked at him curiously. They’d planned the whole funeral together, the three of them, and they’d agreed unanimously on everything from the time and date, to the guest list, to the fact that they intended to remain behind everyone else in order to share a final moment with Harry, just three of them, before they left again. But Draco had not mentioned this final step.

“One last secret,” Draco added, smiling a little dryly. “I mean, I expect you’ll tell Pans, but--I figured that the fewer of us here right now, the better.” He inhaled deeply. “I did tell Dumbledore that this would be to ensure it gets forgotten by the world, after all.”

Understanding lit Hermione’s eyes; it took Ron a moment longer, but then he raised his brows. “You mean--you’re going to leave it--”

“Here,” Draco confirmed, and he knelt in front of the gravestone. “I rather think of it as an exchange, in a sense. I’ll keep the Cloak safe, and hand it down to my descendants as he would have for his own; it's the one remaining Hallow that will stay within my family.”

Very carefully, Draco used his hawthorn wand to draw a straight, even line horizontally along the very center of the stone, equal-distance between the carved inscription _\--”The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death” --_ and the more recent addition of Harry’s name and date-of-death at the base. Once the line was formed, he continued tracing his wand tip along it, slowly deepening it into a thin crevice in the marble, the exact length of the Elder Wand, just deep enough that it could be covered over seamlessly once it was placed within.

“And Harry will keep the Elder Wand safe and well hidden here for me. And someday, when I die, so will the wand's power, as I don't intend to give it to anyone else for any reason. It will never yield to another.”

Drawing the wand in question out of his suit jacket, Draco held it up to examine it one final time. He couldn’t help thinking about the sheer volume of power resting oh-so-innocently in his palms, gazing down at it. But Draco felt no temptation whatsoever; he had absolutely no desire to even toy with the wand’s potential, let alone try and harness it for himself.

He slid the wand into its permanent resting place, releasing it with relief.

Once it was securely nestled into the stone fissure, Draco ran the point of the hawthorn wand back across it, and the marble filled back in like water streaming into a pool, melding perfectly and indistinguishably together again so that there was not a trace of difference in texture or appearance. When he stood back up, Hermione’s hand slipped into his once more. Ron reached up to grasp his shoulder, squeezing in wordless affirmation.

They stood for a few minutes longer together, until the sun had sunk low enough behind the hills that it was no longer easy to see the words on the grave marker. Draco smiled, turning to start leading the way back to the cemetery gate. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Summer nights at the Burrow were as perfect as they had been the year before--maybe even more so this year, because there was nothing left to dread hanging over their heads. And while they all knew perfectly well that there would soon be more weddings to plan and get through, just as there had been last summer, there was no rush to get there just yet.

Draco and Hermione sat curled contentedly on a loveseat in the front garden, amusing themselves by conjuring their Patronuses and watching the gnomes squint and grunt at the gleaming creatures, bouncing and running in circles trying to catch them as the phoenix and the otter dove and swam around one another in playful circles. The varying glows of fairies and fireflies could be seen in the hedges around the yard, and the moon was bright and clear, casting the Burrow in a warm, sweet white-blue light.

Inside the house they could hear laughter and chattering; Pansy and Theo had come over following the funeral, and now it sounded like there were games of Exploding Snap and Gobstones taking place, judging by the intermittent shrieks and giggles spilling out through the open door.

“Are you parents settled back in at home alright?” Draco asked quietly. He had yet to go into London with Hermione to meet Dr. and Mrs. Granger, in part because it had taken some time and work for Hermione to bring them safely back from Australia, restore their memories, and get their home and jobs back in order.

To his immense relief, they had not been angry with their daughter for her actions, though they were certainly keeping more protectively in touch with her now that they were home again.

“Oh, yes,” Hermione confirmed, reaching up idly to tap a fingertip against the adorable small nose of her otter as it gamboled past them; it flared brightly and circled away again, spinning and twisting around the phoenix trailing after it. Draco couldn’t help thinking that his Patronus acted rather just as lovestruck for that otter as he himself was for its maker.

“Yes, they’re doing very well,” she continued. “It was a bit odd to get them back to work, since I couldn’t exactly put in ironclad spellwork to make sure their offices didn’t terminate their jobs, but...it’s all good now.” She curled up against his side, and Draco slung his arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her chaotic curls. “They’re very excited to have you over for supper next week.”

Draco made a noise of joking nervousness at that, and Hermione giggled, poking his side fondly. “If your mother can embrace me and say she already loves me, I assure you, my parents can welcome you with open arms and hearts.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the mild air and the sounds of Pansy cursing profusely as Ginny’s Gobstones apparently succeeded in spraying her. Draco smirked to himself, wondering how Molly Weasley felt about the rather diverse array in children-in-law that she was ending up with.

Following Ron and Pansy declaring their romance to the world, Ginny and Luna had come out to her very pleased parents--if there was anyone worth knowing who _didn’t_ love Luna, Draco couldn’t name them. Then Fred came home revealing that he’d acted on impulse--shocking no one--and had bloody proposed to Angelina Johnson during the festivities at Hogwarts the month before. And finally George, at his twin’s urging, had sheepishly admitted that he and Lee had in fact been a couple since sometime in their fifth year.

It seemed that Charlie was the last unattached Weasley child, and Draco had the clear impression that the dragon-tamer felt zero interest in adjusting that fact.

Hermione let out a long, contented sigh, cuddling back against him and lifting the hand hanging over her shoulder, kissing Draco’s fingers drowsily. “Everything feels...so perfect,” she murmured, and Draco’s heart sang at the complete happiness in her voice. For the rest of his life, he would work his arse off to ensure that she sounded that way at least once every day.

He’d love to swear that it would be constant, forever, but Draco was not foolish enough to think that life would be perfectly easy from there on, even with no dark lords and wars and nightmares to be faced.

“So,” she continued, tilting her face to peer up at him; she wore a crooked smile, and Draco could not resist--nor did he have a single damned reason to--as he leaned in to kiss her lips soundly, feeling them twitch with amusement beneath the pressure. “What happens now?”

Draco pretended to consider that seriously, as if he didn’t immediately have between three and ten very reasonable suggestions to make in reply to such a general question. “Hmm. Well, I suppose I don’t know.” He smirked, meeting her eyes again and arching one eyebrow in the trademark cocky look that he knew she loved to see on his face; sure enough, she blushed adorably. “Want to get married?”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath; she’d obviously anticipated something snarky, but not necessarily _that._ Draco had a solid moment to revel in having stunned her.

Then she tilted her chin up rather defiantly, and the wicked grin flashed back across her face; Draco knew instantly that he was doomed. “Yeah, eventually.”

He spluttered, both at the deadpan reply and at the fact that she was laughing like she’d beaten him in one of their classic back-and-forths as she watched his face spasm in reaction to her retort. “‘Eventually?’” Draco echoed, feigning disbelief as Hermione continued cackling. “I just won a _war_ for you, Granger, and you give me ‘eventually?’”

She bounced up off of the loveseat, her Patronus flaring an almost too-bright white with the surge of her amusement and happiness before it popped out of existence. The phoenix followed suit as Draco scrambled to his feet as well, following behind her towards the door. “Get back here, woman--! I _see you laughing, Granger!”_

“And if we _did_ marry,” Hermione laughed, turning her head to look back at him coyly, “What do you intend to offer, exactly?”

“To pamper you until the day we die,” Draco replied promptly. “That’s a promise.”

“...I’ll think about it.”

“Granger!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Epilogue.
> 
> After that: a one-shot peek-a-boo for anyone who wanted more deets from Draco and Hermione's first time. <3
> 
> And then:  
> Part Two--"Blue Skies Are Coming." This multi-chapter fic will cover the interim between the current chapter and the epilogue. Will post on Fridays as well, but there may be a break before it begins posting. Thank you for your patience. <3


	47. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Dragon, after all, had defeated the Dark Lord forever, all those years before.”

**_~Nineteen Years Later~_ **

As much as Draco had been dreading this day, it finally came.

September rolled around once again; and bright and early on the first, the house was already in chaos, despite Draco and Hermione trying--and apparently failing--to get their son to pack his bags properly the night before. Clothes were strewn about; books were scattered all over the house; he’d already lost the packet of good quills that Draco had purchased; and halfway to King’s Cross station, they had to turn around because a cauldron got left behind.

Honestly, he had never been this underprepared for a school year. But it was the first child in their household to be going, and he knew that everyone was a little on edge…or at least, he and Hermione were. Having been given permission from his superiors at St. Mungo’s to take the day off, Draco was committed to seeing all of his children off to Hogwarts as their time came.

They just had to bloody get there first.

“Harry!” Draco shifted Delaney on his hip, allowing the small girl to cling to his jacket collar as he tugged her stuffed cat out of the backseat of the car for her. “Don’t rush off quite yet, you need to get your trunk!” He huffed a little, looking to Hermione as she helped Minerva hop out of the car and adjusted her white-blonde ponytail. “Honestly. Neither of us were this scatterbrained at his age.”

Hermione just looked amused as she grabbed a trolley to slide the trunk onto, and then carefully perched their son’s owl cage on top. The barn owl inside, appropriately named Apollo, looked very disgruntled with this entire situation, and he clicked his beak impatiently.

“Sorry Dad! I was just looking for Auntie Pansy and Uncle Ron!” Harry ran back to them then, his wild brown curls blowing in the wind. “They might already be on the platform, do you think? Are we going to miss the train?”

“We got here with fifteen minutes to spare,” Hermione assured him, trying to smooth down his hair momentarily before giving up as usual. “Come on then, take your trolley--and keep an eye on your sister. You know how she likes to wander.”

“Okay! Come on Minnie, let’s go!” The eleven-year-old waited until his eight-year-old sister hopped up to perch on his trunk before pushing their way towards the station at top speed, both of them cackling madly.

“Slow down!” Draco called after them, locking up the car and carrying Delaney after them. He looked to the six-year-old, raising an eyebrow as her dark grey eyes locked onto his. “Promise me you’ll be the most tamable child.”

“Nah,” Delaney responded, causing Hermione to stifle a laugh.

Draco heaved a sigh, giving his wife a playful stink eye. “They get this from you, Granger.”

“Excuse me, it’s Granger-Malfoy to you, sir,” she teased, looping her arm through his free one. “And if anything they get this from you. Excitable, high energy, stubborn…”

“Bless McGonagall’s soul,” Draco said dryly. “I don’t envy her when these two follow Harry to Hogwarts.”

They caught up with their older two children at the barrier that concealed Platform 9 ¾ from the Muggle world. Harry looked a bit nervous now, and he looked up at Draco as they paused by his side, while Minerva hopped off of the trolley. “Will you come with me, Dad?”

“‘Course.” Dutifully, he handed Delaney to Hermione, before he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s always a bit nerve-wracking the first time around. You want to take a running start, or just walk on through?”

“I wanna run!”

“Of course you do.” He gently tweaked Harry’s chin, making him laugh, before placing his hands on the trolley’s handle on either side of Harry’s. “Okay, you ready? Three, two, go!”

Together, father and son made a running start for the platform. Thankfully, Harry didn’t balk when they reached the wall, and they sailed right through as easily as if they were diving through water, the magical enchantments washing over them like a cool rush of air in color and sound, and then they were on the other side.

The platform was crowded, as it always was on the day of school. Children of all ages were saying goodbye to their parents, or greeting their friends. He could hear someone squealing about losing their toad--probably Fiona, Neville and Hannah’s daughter, she did seem to inherit her father’s talent for losing things--but in the heavy mist they didn’t see her anywhere. No doubt she was being consoled by her great-grandmother--or lectured, it was a give-or-take situation.

“I see them!” Harry cried suddenly as Hermione led the girls through the portal behind them. “Look Dad, I see them, they’re over there!”

“Yes, the red hair is quite difficult to miss,” Draco said dryly, leading his family over to where Ron and Pansy were standing, with Pansy holding tight to Ian’s hand to keep their youngest child from running off. “Hello you two, sorry we’re late.”

“Quite alright, darling.” Pansy pulled Draco in for a quick hug, and kissed Hermione on the cheek in greeting. “Ivy and Iris wanted to change into their school robes, I don’t know where they’ve gone.”

“Just look for a couple of gingers,” Ron quipped. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

His wife rolled her eyes, swatting his arm affectionately before gesturing towards the barrier, where more familiar figures were hurrying onto the platform. “Well, there’s no guaranteeing that ‘a couple of gingers’ would actually be _our_ lot--Weasleys, sure, but that makes for quite a long list.”

She grinned as they were joined by the next new arrivals. Victoire absolutely took after her mother’s Veela bloodline, making her an exception among her cousins. Angelina had passed her hair’s natural coils on to little Percy, but he had still claimed the Weasley red from Fred, just as Ron and Pansy’s twins had done.

“It’s a red-haired army,” Draco chuckled. He glanced around for Harry again, and paused when he saw that his son had moved a few feet away; he was watching an older boy carefully and proudly pinning the gleaming emerald-and-silver badge of a Slytherin Prefect to the front of his robes.

Moving to join his son, Draco crouched beside him. “You alright, buddy?”

Harry nodded, still watching; other Prefects were coming to greet their classmate, wearing robes in Gryffindor and Hufflepuff colors. There was no animosity visible amongst them. “Iris said she can’t decide which House she wants to be in,” he confided in his father. “‘Cause she says that Mum and Uncle Ron are cool, but you and Auntie Pansy are, too--and then Auntie Luna is awesome, and she was in Ravenclaw.” He chewed on his bottom lip, tugging at one of his uncontrollable brown curls that he’d inherited from his mother. “Where do you think I’ll end up?”

Draco smiled tenderly at his eldest, reaching out to take his hand. “I think it doesn’t matter,” he told Harry gently. “Iris is right--you two have some absolutely incredible family members from every house. Aunt Tonks and cousin Teddy are both Hufflepuffs, after all.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “And I’ll tell you something else, kiddo; you weren’t _only_ named after Harry Potter.”

“I wasn’t? Who else?”

“Cedric Diggory was a Hufflepuff, and one of the kindest, smartest, most lovely people I ever knew at Hogwarts. We named you Harry Cedric because those two heroes died at the same time--and without the two of them, your dad might never have become the good man that I am today.” Draco chuckled. “I’d certainly never have earned your mother’s love.”

Harry scoffed. “Mum _adores_ you.”

“And I her.” Draco grinned, rising and nudging his son back towards their family. “Come on, we’d better get you on board, mister.”

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” Harry asked as they rejoined his mother, and Hermione reached over to hug him tightly with one arm.

“Absolutely. As often as you like, or even more than that. We’ll embarrass you terribly,” she promised, making the eleven-year-old giggle gratefully.

“Where’d Vickie get to?” Bill asked, looking around for his daughter, and Minnie grinned knowingly.

“She’s with Teddy and Rolf, up near the front-most carriage,” she reported to her uncle, who nodded thankfully at the update. When he turned away, Minnie caught her father’s raised eyebrow, and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “She was holding _hands_ with Teddy.”

“Oh, that’s going to develop into something interesting,” he muttered, but for Minnie’s sake he just smiled, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “That’s alright, they’ll say goodbye in time.” He pulled out his pocket watch--the one that Severus had sent him on his seventeenth birthday, while the one his mother had finally passed on to him was stored neatly and safely, in order to one day be given to Harry. “It’s nearly eleven, you’d all better get on board.”

“Don’t forget to give Neville our love!” Hermione added as she hugged Harry one last time.

“Mum! I can’t give a professor love!”

“But you _know_ Neville—”

“Outside, yeah, but at school he’s Professor Longbottom, isn’t he? I can’t walk into Herbology and give him love....” Shaking his head at his mother’s foolishness, Harry grinned as he handed off Apollo’s cage to the footman who was hastening along, making sure all of the luggage made it onto the train.

Hermione kissed Harry goodbye. “See you at Christmas, darling.”

“Bye, pal,” Draco said gently as his son hugged him one last time. “Don’t forget that Hagrid’s invited you to tea next Friday. Don’t mess around with Peeves. Don’t duel anyone till you’ve learned how. And keep an eye on your cousins, right? Same to you two,” he added, returning the quick hugs that Iris and Ivy offered him as well as they headed for the train steps. “Watch out for each other, all of you.”

The doors were slamming all along the scarlet train, and blurred outlines of parents were visible swarming forward for final kisses and last-minute reminders to their children. Harry jumped into the carriage after his cousins, and Pansy closed the door behind him. Students were hanging from the windows up and down the length; a great number of faces, both on the train and off, seemed to be turned toward Draco.

“Why are they all staring?” Harry asked curiously, as he and Ivy craned around to look at the other students all around their window.

“Don’t let it worry you,” Ron called cheekily, grinning up at his nephew. “It’s me. I’m extremely famous.” The children all laughed appreciatively, withdrawing behind the window panes and waving happily. The train began to move, and Draco walked slowly alongside it, watching his son’s slightly pointy face; he was already ablaze with excitement.

Draco kept on smiling and waving back to him, even though it was like a little bereavement, watching his firstborn glide away from him.

At last, the last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner, Draco’s hand still raised in farewell.

“He’ll be alright. He's safe there,” Hermione murmured, coming to his side and slipping her fingers beneath the left sleeve of his jacket. Draco felt her fingertips trace absent-mindedly over the space where, she knew without having to look, the inked tail of the Hungarian Horntail tattooed elaborately around Draco’s arm was curled. Even magical ink could not break the pattern of the Dark Mark on his skin; but it was a beautiful distraction, vivid and brightly-colored, winding about his forearm with its fiery jaws open wide as if swooping in to devour the serpent and skull.

The Dragon, after all, had defeated the Dark Lord forever, all those years before.

It was also the one concession that Draco had ever made for Gryffindor fashion, as the Horntail painted into his skin was collared by a scarf of gold and crimson; a tribute to the fierce and fearless young Gryffindor who had once skillfully taken to the skies on his Firebolt, and outflown a dragon of the same breed.

Draco lowered his hand to place it over his wife’s, smiling tenderly as she stroked the tattoo, the way that she sometimes did when she was self-soothing, while their daughters looked on towards the horizon where the train had disappeared. “I know he will.” Beneath the warmth of their linked hands, there was no trace of burning or stinging from any of the scars that littered Draco’s skin.

All was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note of Thanks~
> 
> From Minx: Friends...I am overwhelmed with emotion. This fic has been one of the most fun, intense, and complex writing journeys of my fandom life. It started with a spark, Hardy injecting her love for Draco into my heart, and then...it just started telling itself. It began as a gift for her, unsure if it would be posted--and then Iron Sky came to life. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I thought I hit a wall, and then Draco or Hermione or Pansy laughed at me and explained what happened next. Or I hesitated, and Hardy found the words. And in the end, it unfolded into a universe more evolved and complete and beautiful than I ever imagined--on par with canon. I am so proud to have written this story, for my lover and for all of you; and I am beyond grateful for every click, kudos, and comment that you have all given us in encouragement. The Iron Sky is complete, but the story will continue.
> 
> From Hardy: What began as shipping fodder evolved into a beautiful AU, where Draco got his redemption, Harry’s memory was honored, and several characters got their dues. We posted this for us, first and foremost, but we are honored and humbled by those of you who joined our adventures from the very beginning, and stuck with us until the very end. We love all of you so much, and we hope to keep seeing you in the future days to come. Thank you for all of your endless support.


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